Operation Jealousy
by JustlikeWater
Summary: By the age of thirty-eight, Sherlock Holmes found himself platonically dating a woman he'd met during a blind date arranged by the man he was in love with, who just so happened to be the boyfriend of his fake girlfriend's best friend. It was absolutely mad, as were most of Janine's plans, but if it meant finally winning John's heart, Sherlock was willing to go along for the ride.
1. A Slight Miscalculation

**A/N: Hey, guys! I've been working on this story since _Love Ballads for the Nonbelievers_ came to an end, and I'm so excited to finally post it! Many thanks to my fabulous beta-reader, resrie71, for editing this chapter and making some wonderful suggestions.**

 **A few things to know about this story:**

 **-After the first few chapters, the angst will abate and things will become fairly lighthearted**

 **-This story will mostly focus on the hijinks that surround Janine and Sherlock's fake relationship, as well as John's resulting jealousy**

 **-And lastly (and most importantly) Johnlock is endgame!**

 **Enjoy! :)**

* * *

When Sherlock Holmes returned from his two-year stint as an undercover agent-slash-deceased flatmate, several notable things occurred.

First, he was punched in the face.

To be fair, Sherlock shouldn't have been surprised that John Watson, former army doctor and renowned hothead, did not react well to him randomly showing up on the porch of 221B in the middle of the night, after he'd supposedly been dead for the past few years.

"You _bastard,_ " John growled.

Actually, 'did not react well' was a bit of an understatement, because the moment Sherlock opened his mouth, John wound up his arm and gave Sherlock a throbbing black eye that would've made a professional boxer wince.

Second, he was hugged (rather tightly).

Immediately following the brief assault, John choked out, " _You bastard_ " in an entirely different tone, and lunged forward to haul Sherlock into a suffocating embrace. Shocked but relieved by this turn of events, Sherlock gratefully wrapped his arms around John's back and returned the hug, his face tucked firmly into the side of John's neck.

"I missed you, John," Sherlock mumbled into the scruff of his jumper. The familiar smell of laundry detergent, aftershave, and warm skin sent Sherlock careening back to a time when John was just his blogger, and the biggest conflict they faced was whether or not Sherlock had forgotten another dismembered body part in the fridge. It was a smell that reminded him of home, of safety and comfort. He inhaled as deeply as he could and melted into the embrace with a sigh

"You're here, yeah? You're really here?"

Sherlock nodded as much as he could given their close proximity. "I'm here, John," he assured him. "I'm here."

And finally, after another ten minutes on the porch, he was ushered into the flat and given a cup of tea and a sandwich.

"John, I'm not hungry," Sherlock tried, politely declining the plate in John's hand. They were in the sitting room with the curtains drawn and Sherlock was seated in his black chair. The leather had creaked with disuse when he sat down, which made him wonder if John had really left it untouched for all this time.

John pointedly did not acknowledge Sherlock's statement and set the food before him anyway. "Eat and then talk," John said, taking a seat in his own chair. Sherlock started to protest again, but John raised a hand to silence him. "And don't even try to tell me you don't want it, because you look like you've lost thirty pounds. Eat the sandwich or I'm kicking you out."

Sherlock scrutinized John's face and tried to determine if he was serious or if the statement was merely a bluff. After a beat or two passed and John's determined expression did not waver, Sherlock sighed and took a bite of the sandwich. It was roast beef.

"John, I don't know where to start," Sherlock said. He wiped his mouth and reached for his tea for the sake of having something to hold onto. "I've been imagining our reunion for two years, but now that it's here, I find myself at loss for words."

John took a deep breath and stared into his own mug of tea. "Then start with this: why did you lie to me on the roof?"

That was easy. _Couldn't risk you following me into battle, could I?_

"I was trying to give you closure. I thought that maybe if you hated me before I died, it would be easier for you to let go."

"Hate you?" John laughed, but the sound lacked all humor and the light didn't quite reach his eyes. "You always do this, you know."

"Do what?"

"Underestimate the way I feel."

Sherlock frowned and placed the cup down on the table. "What do you mean?"

"You think I would ever be able to hate you, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice low. "Do you really think I'd be able to switch my feelings off just like that? You were my best friend and you remained my best friend even when I thought you lied to me and jumped off a fucking building for no reason. You always underestimate how important you are and how much I care about you. It didn't give me closure, if anything, it made it even more difficult for me to 'let go'. Lying to me didn't help anything. You killed yourself right in front of me, Sherlock, how could anything soften that blow?"

Sherlock leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. "John, if I hadn't jumped, Moriarty would have killed you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft and I had no choice but to devise an escape route."

John rubbed a hand down his face. "I have a question, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded readily, as he'd been expecting this. "Yes, you want to know how I did it. Well, first of all, it required quite a bit of precision and—"

"No," John interrupted. "I don't care how you did it, I want to know why you didn't call me," he said. His brows drew together and the exhausted bags under his eyes seemed to grow more pronounced.

" _One word,_ Sherlock, that's all I would have needed. Just one."

"John, there were so many times that I nearly made contact," Sherlock said earnestly. His fingers uncurled from his fist and stretched towards John, as if subconsciously reaching for him. "But I couldn't risk the sanctity of the operation. _And before you say anything_ ," Sherlock hastily added at John's look of protest, "I'm not implying that you would have said anything indiscreet. But there were people, dangerous people, watching your every move, and if you so much as smiled a bit too brightly one morning or ate a portion more than usual at dinner, they would have captured and immediately interrogated you. Or held you for ransom. Or _worse._ It was extremely delicate business, John, and while I do believe you would have been capable of handling it, Mycroft and I agreed that it would be foolish to add any unnecessary risk to this already tenuous operation."

There was a long pause that felt as heavy as cement. Finally John placed his mug down and looked up at him.

"Do you know what it was like, Sherlock? Thinking you were dead?" John asked quietly, his eyes glossy. "At least you had something to work towards for the past two years. You got to think about coming home. I didn't, Sherlock. I thought you were gone and there was no end in sight. I was just—drifting. I was lost."

A deep remorse ached in his bones. "This was the last thing I wanted to do, John. Lying to you and deserting you were some of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Every second of those two years was spent waiting for my chance to come back here and reunite with you, John. I wish there had been some other way to dismantle Moriarty's web, because I would've taken it in a second."

Sherlock's comment seemed to soothe some of the tension, but it hadn't destroyed it entirely; John was still staring at Sherlock like he wasn't quite sure what to make of him and the air was still charged with an oppressive silence.

Ah, the apology. That's what was missing.

"John," Sherlock said, his grey eyes locked on John's. "I'm sorry." The words escaped his lips in a gust of breath and left him feeling ten tons lighter. "I'm sorry," he said again, feeling a stinging wave of regret and love rise and crest inside his ribcage. "I'm so sorry, John, if I could have done things differently, I would have. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

John just looked at him, and for a long time, neither of them said anything. Sherlock's chest was heaving and John's eyes were wet and full of unshed tears, but the bitterness of the atmosphere was gone. Though there was still silence hanging in the air, it no longer felt hostile. It felt pure.

"John…perhaps I could hug you again?" Sherlock asked, standing up. He cleared his throat, feeling as though his knees were made of water, because it was _just now_ occurring to him that he was back for good. He was once again here with John, living, breathing, wonderful John, and he needed to touch him to make sure this was real.

"Okay," John said, standing up too. Sherlock stepped forward and wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, pulling him flush against his body.

"If you're, um, still hungry, maybe we could head to Angelo's," John mumbled into Sherlock's shoulder. His hair was tickling Sherlock's nose and his hands were fisted in the back of Sherlock's coat.

A flood of relief crashed over Sherlock and a bright, sweet ache settled somewhere within his chest. He felt like crying, in a good way.

"I'd love to, John. "

And though things certainly weren't patched up entirely, they felt okay, and that was good enough for now.

* * *

 _Six months later:_

For a very long time after Sherlock's return, the two of them fell back into their usual routine. John made tea and Sherlock took cases and the two of them lived in the same banter-filled, bickering harmony they always had. They still argued over whose turn it was to take out the trash, and how many dismembered fingers were appropriate for an individual to possess. They still walked around London on the weekends and people-watched, deducing strangers' lives and snorting at all the sordid details. They still laughed together and got annoyed with each other and read the morning paper side by side on the sofa. In one word, it was wonderful. In two words, it was _bloody_ wonderful.

Unfortunately, John's proclivity for dating also resurfaced with the rest of their old habits.

On the bright side, John's love life was still as sporadic as it had always been, so there was no real danger of him scampering off and getting married any time soon. Thus, the random lipsticks marks and late nights didn't particularly concern Sherlock. Since his return, he and John had been so exceptionally close that not even the most beautiful woman in the world could tear them apart. All he really needed at the moment was _time_. A bit more time with John Watson, _Confirmed Bachelor_ , and everything would be perfect. Because the thing was, Sherlock cared greatly for John. Both as a friend and…something more. At the moment he was just biding his time until he could find the perfect opportunity to confess his feelings or, better yet, suss out whether or not John felt the same. Ideally, he would be able to discern John's stance _before_ baring his soul, but if a perfect chance to confess the truth presented itself, Sherlock certainly wasn't going to turn it down. It was just a matter of time, really. Maybe it would happen during a case when they once again found themselves wedged in a cramped space for several hours (stakeouts were rather time-consuming). Perhaps John would stare at Sherlock for a moment longer than he needed to and they would both become simultaneously aware of their proximity to each other, their shared body heat, the enticing pout of the other's lips…

But, anyway. The point was, Sherlock had given it quite a bit of thought. Admittedly, it was quite frustrating to watch John scamper off with his army of single women, but Sherlock took quiet comfort in the knowledge that this situation was only temporary. Sometime soon, he would find the perfect moment to sit John down and finally confess years of suppressed emotion, and it would be absolutely _exquisite._

* * *

"I really want you to meet Mary," John said one morning as he prepared Sherlock a cup of tea.

That sentence, along with the disgustingly tender look on John's face, completely shattered the peace of the early morning atmosphere and Sherlock's relatively good mood.

"The name rings a bell," Sherlock said noncommittally, without looking up from the article he was reading.

"Mary as in Mary _Morstan_. You know, the nurse? Blonde, short, green eyes? We've been dating for a while now, Sherlock," John added with a tinge of annoyance. For some reason, John always expected Sherlock to commit to memory every detail of the women he dated. It was absolutely ridiculous. Not even _he_ had that much mental space.

"Ah, in that case, no," Sherlock answered with easy finality, flipping to the next page of this month's issue of _Practical Reptile Keeping._ "I'd rather not do that."

"I know you'd rather not, Sherlock, but I'm asking you to do it anyway. As a _friend_." When that inspired no reaction from the detective, John huffed and sat down across from him at the table. "Please, Sherlock. This is important to me."

"Why?" Sherlock snapped, finally deigning to look John in the eye. He shut the magazine with a moody flick of his wrist and shoved it aside. "If I met every one of your girlfriends, do you know how many useless, short-lived acquaintanceships I would have accumulated by now? You go through them like tissue paper, John, I see no point in meeting each one."

John clenched his jaw and looked at the ceiling, evidently practicing those breathing exercises Sherlock had seen in his search history last weekend. Supposedly, they lowered his blood pressure and allowed 'peace of mind'.

"Sherlock, Mary is different," John explained. "She's incredibly important to me and she _isn't_ like the rest."

"Oh? And why's that?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

"Because, Sherlock," John said, folding his hands on the table very deliberately. "I'm moving in with her."

If a pin had dropped somewhere across the globe at that moment, Sherlock was certain he would have heard it like an explosion. The silence in the kitchen was deafening and his hands all of a sudden felt quiet numb. A low buzzing noise that reminded him of the static on the telly droned in his ears in an endless, deafening loop.

"Sherlock?" John asked after an indeterminable amount of time. His voice sounded muted and far away, as if he were speaking underwater. "Did you hear what I said?"

Dazed, Sherlock stood up and blindly reached for his coat which was hanging on the back of his chair. He needed to leave. Right now. His head felt fuzzy and a strange choking feeling was beginning to well up in his throat.

How had he overlooked this? How had he not noticed John's increasing absences? It was true that he often spoke to John even when he wasn't in the flat, but even still, he should have realized that the nights of silence and solitude had increased immensely over the past few months. John still came along on cases, which was perhaps why Sherlock hadn't noticed something was wrong, but he no longer offered to watch films on the sofa together. He no longer milled around the flat for most of the afternoon, typing up cases and chastising Sherlock for his mess. He no longer ordered takeaway and ate dinner with Sherlock on the floor of the sitting room. All of those small, wonderful gestures had stopped and for some reason, Sherlock hadn't noticed until right now.

He was always so careful about this. He always made sure that John's relationships never lasted. He had a cabinet in his mind palace dedicated solely to John's love life and he watched over it with great care. In the year since Sherlock's return, John had dated Jessica for a week, Samantha for six days, Nina for a month, Lucy for two, and Nancy for three weeks. They hadn't lasted because John's lifestyle was too dangerous or John's flatmate was too mad, or John didn't spend enough time with them, or _something._ There was always _something._

But this Mary person—she was different. She didn't mind the cases or the abrasive friend or even the cancelled plans, in fact she found it all quite _charming_.

Sherlock had only seen her once before, when she'd come by the flat to pick up John before one of their nauseating dinner dates. Mary was what most people might call 'cute', with her dimpled smile and bottle-green eyes. She'd been wearing a red sweater and a black skirt with silver shoes and matching earrings, and when John had seen her, he'd pretended to swoon. Mary had blushed, John had giggled, and Sherlock had made a retching noise and stormed out of the room.

He hadn't bothered registering her as a threat, though, because John had a rather unimpressive track record when it came to relationships and Mary did not appear to be the sort of dazzling woman that could captivate him enough to make him change his ways.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Sherlock had made a fatal miscalculation.

What made this entire event even crueler was the fact that his two years away had brought some much-needed lucidity to his previously ambiguous feelings for John. Never before had he been this certain about his desire for John.

 _Soulmates_ was a silly phrase that was tossed about quite often in pop culture, but Sherlock couldn't help but think it suited him and John perfectly. He'd never cared about anyone this much before, nor had he ever been so eager to maintain a relationship. John was the kind of man (the only man, really) that Sherlock wanted to grow old with. He wanted to wake up every morning and go to sleep every night knowing that John was only a room away. He wanted to eat breakfast across the table from him, sit beside him on the couch, laugh with him, take cases with him, touch him, talk to him, have lunch at Angelo's and make silly jokes with him. Everything was brighter when John Watson was in the room. And he couldn't exactly have that if John was living with some _woman._

"Sherlock?" John's concerned voiced snapped him back to the present. He was standing a few inches away, waving a hand in front of Sherlock's glazed eyes.

"What?"

"I said, where are you going? You grabbed your coat and said you needed to go somewhere just now."

Sherlock blinked and looked down and sure enough, his coat was there, clutched in his white-knuckled hands.

 _Away,_ that's where he'd meant to go. Away from here. Away from all this bad news.

"You're moving in with her?" His voice sounded like an echo to his own ears.

"Yes, I've been thinking about it for a while, now, actually. It feels like the right time to do this, you know?"

 _No, I don't know._ "Oh."

"Sherlock, are you okay? You look pale."

"Don't I always?"

"No, I mean 'on the verge of passing out' kind of pale. Here, sit down and have some water."

"No," Sherlock said sharply, shaking off his daze. "I do need to go, actually. Errands to run, you know. Very important things to do."

John frowned. "Errands? What errands? I just went to Tesco and Molly already stopped by with that new shipment of livers, what else could you possibly need?"

"Scarves, stationary, I don't know," Sherlock answered distractedly as he strode towards the door. "I'll be back soon, John."

"Sherlock, I really think you should stay so we can talk about this!" John called as Sherlock swung open the front door.

"We'll talk later," Sherlock called back, and then disappeared down the stairwell with his heart still caught in his throat.

…

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock did not actually have any errands to complete; he merely wandered around London for the rest of the morning.

On the corner of Newbury and Watford, he stumbled across a very interesting homeless gentlemen with a grey beard and several theories on alien life forms. Sherlock stood there and listened for ten minutes simply because he had nothing better to do, and the man was so grateful for the attention that he removed one of the colorful pins from his backpack and offered it to Sherlock.

"For the end of the world, mate," he said gravely. Sherlock accepted the accessory and peered down at it.

"'Kiss me, I'm Irish'," Sherlock read aloud. After clearing his throat and tucking the pin away, he looked up at the man and inclined his head politely. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," the man said sagely, and then wandered off to reiterate his theories to the pigeons on the pavement.

…

After that, Sherlock milled around a few well-known alleyways because there was always something noteworthy happening there, and he was still desperate for a distraction. Sure enough, after ten minutes, he managed to bust two teenagers who were attempting to buy fake marijuana from a thirty year old man wearing stolen sneakers.

"You two are wasting your time," Sherlock announced lazily from the mouth of the alley. The two boys looked up, startled, and the man retracted the proffered bag and hid it in the pocket of his oversized sweatshirt.

"N-nothing's happening here, mister," the shorter, freckled one stuttered. His tall, blonde-haired friend scowled at Sherlock and stepped forward.

"Move along, old man," he snarled.

Sherlock merely raised a brow and leaned against the brick wall. "Fine, if you're content to spend your money on kitchen spices, by all means. Go right ahead."

Blonde whipped around to stare accusingly at the man. "What's he talking about?"

"I don't know, do you want the weed or not?" the man snapped, his movements jittery and abrupt. His eyes had a cagey quality to them which made Sherlock believe he was either on something or _waiting_ to be on something. "Well?"

"Um…" Freckles said hesitantly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don't know anymore…"

Blonde clenched his jaw and held open his palm. "Gimme the bag and I'll inspect it. There's no way I'm spending twenty five pounds on rubbish."

The man stepped back. "Buy it or walk away, brat, I don't need you questioning my damn product. Why are you going to take his word for it, anyway? He's just some weirdo lurking around in a black coat."

Sherlock hummed in amusement and examined his cuticles. "As to opposed to you, a highly accomplished thirty-something year old with stolen Lacoste shoes and an unwashed sweatshirt that indicates you still rely on your mother for clean laundry? Right, yes, my mistake. I'm clearly in the presence of greatness."

Freckles snorted. The man's shadowed face twisted into a scowl. "Beat it, unless you want trouble, mate."

Sherlock pointedly looked right past the man and made eye contact with Blonde. "It's oregano and stems. If you're looking to season a nice chicken sometime soon, perhaps it is still a worthy investment. If not, however, I suggest you pocket your money and spend it elsewhere."

Blonde turned to the man with disgust and stormed away, dragging Freckles along with him.

The man watched them go and then whipped around to glare at Sherlock, his yellowed teeth just visible in the darkness of the alley. "I oughta cut you for that."

Sherlock scoffed and turned on his heel. "Wouldn't recommend it," he called over his shoulder. "My best friend is quite trigger happy."

…

After Sherlock walked around the block for yet another lap, he looked up at the sky and realized that he'd been out for far longer than he'd intended. How many hours had he spent wandering about? Three? Four? Somehow, in that time, he'd managed to forget his dilemma and lose himself in the endless, colorful chaos of the city. Unfortunately, now that the distractions had come to an end, he had no choice but to face the reality of the situation: John was moving out.

Feeling glum and rather defeated, he sat down on a bench in St. Regents Park and pulled his mobile from his pocket, only to find eight unread messages and six missed calls.

 ** _Sherlock, I know it's a lot to absorb. Just take however long you need, ok?_**

 ** _Ok, it's been an hour and a half, are you alright? Should I come find you?_**

 ** _Where are you?_**

 ** _Sherlock._**

 ** _Please tell me you didn't do anything stupid._**

 ** _Sherlock, please remember that the Thames is extremely dangerous and you definitely should not 'go for a swim', as you jokingly suggested yesterday._**

 ** _Or at least I hope you were joking._**

 ** _Sherlock DO NOT go near the Thames._**

Sherlock sighed and clicked on John's number.

"Sherlock? Where the hell are you and why haven't you been answering your phone?"

"Hello to you too, John. I'm in the park right now," Sherlock answered calmly. "I'm people-watching."

"Sherlock bloody Holmes, do you know how scared I was? You just up and left the sodding flat without even telling me where you were going. What the hell was that about?"

"I needed time to think, John."

John exhaled loudly and Sherlock could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Okay. Well, what conclusion have you arrived at?"

"I've decided that you won't be moving out," Sherlock stated.

"Pardon?"

"I don't believe I stuttered, John."

"No, you're right, you didn't. I was saying 'pardon' to give you a chance to revaluate that statement," John said flatly. "How exactly do you plan on keeping me in the flat? How would that work? Is Mary supposed to move in with us?"

"Mary? In the flat?" Sherlock snorted derisively. "No, certainly not. That sounds terrible. I propose that you remain where you are and continue courting Mary as you've been doing. No need to move in together and make any rash decisions."

"Sherlock, I'm done courting Mary, I've been doing that for months. This is a very important step that all couples have to take at some point, and it's time for Mary and I to do the same."

"You and I have been living together for years," Sherlock pointed out. "If sharing quarters is as significant as you claim it is, then shouldn't I be given priority here? We've been flatmates for far longer."

"It's not the same thing," John explained, in the same tone he'd used when Sherlock had asked what the difference was between John's dates with Sarah and John's dates with Sherlock. (Apparently, the difference was that when he was with Sherlock, they weren't called dates, _even though_ nearly the exact same things occurred).

"So then you _want_ to leave?" Sherlock asked, unable (and unwilling) to hide the bitterness in his tone.

John sighed. "Sherlock, I don't want to leave you, if that's what you're asking. But there just comes a time in a man's life when he has to settle down and find a woman he cares about and—"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, "I would rather swallow a mouthful of gravel than listen to the rest of that sentence."

"Fine," John huffed. "Then will you at least come home? I want to talk about this in person."

…

The first thing John said when Sherlock returned to the flat was, "You're Irish?"

"What?" Sherlock asked irritably as he strode into the sitting room and shed his scarf.

"Your pin," John said, pointing to Sherlock's lapel. "It says, um—" he caught sight of the exasperated look on Sherlock's face and stopped himself "—doesn't matter. What were you doing for all those hours?"

Sherlock sat down in his chair with a dramatic _hmph."_ I accosted a D-grade drug dealer and listened to conspiracy theories from a new member of my homeless network."

"For four hours?"

"I also wandered about," Sherlock stated dismissively. "Tried to clear my head a bit."

"Right," John said with a nod. Stiffly, he marched over to his chair and took a seat across from Sherlock, seemingly reluctant to address the topic that was looming over their heads like smog. After a few moments of awkward silence, he finally cleared his throat and said, "I thought perhaps we could talk about Mary, now." He paused. "About me and Mary, I mean. And all this moving out business."

"Right, yes, I nearly forgot," Sherlock muttered. "We only spoke about it twenty minutes ago."

John sighed his infamous weary sigh and rubbed his forehead. "Sherlock, you have to accept that this is going to happen. Mary and I are going to live together no matter what, so it's useless to act like this."

At John's words, Sherlock expression clouded and he curled his hands into fists to keep from anxiously drumming his fingers against the chair.

It wasn't fair. They'd just found each other again, why was John so eager to leave? What was so bloody incredible about this _Mary_ woman, anyway? Why was John choosing her over Sherlock?

"Fine," Sherlock said curtly. "If it's that simple, then is there really a need to discuss this any further?"

"Yes," John said firmly, "because I want you to understand that just because I'm moving out, doesn't mean I'm going to stop spending time with you. We'll still take cases and get lunch at Angelo's and go the St. Regents Park. The only difference is that I'll be living somewhere else. That's all."

Sherlock scoffed and looked away. "John, I'd really appreciate if you didn't speak to me like a six year old whose parents are getting a divorce. Don't bother sugar-coating everything, I completely understand what's happening here."

John frowned at him. "Then, please, enlighten me."

"You're moving on with your life. Yes, perhaps you and I will initially spend time together after you move out, but eventually, you'll become completely invested in your relationship with Mary and I'll begin to fade into the background, until one day you and I won't even speak anymore," Sherlock said, bitterness coating his words like tar. "So please do not patronize me by pretending that nothing is going to change."

John looked both hurt and surprised by Sherlock's words. "Nothing _is_ going to change, Sherlock, and frankly, I'm a bit offended that you think so little of our friendship."

" _I_ think so little of our friendship?" Sherlock repeated incredulously. "Well, _I'm_ not the one moving out, am I?"

"Sherlock…" There was that patent John Watson weariness, again.

"When are you moving out?" Sherlock asked at length, the anger now sapped from his tone.

"Sometime this month," John said. "I, er, may need help with moving my stuff, but if you'd rather not, I understand."

"Of course I'll help you, John," Sherlock said tiredly. Willingly helping John erase his presence from the flat was one of the last things Sherlock wanted to do, but he didn't have the heart to refuse him. Especially not when John was looking at him with those impossibly sincere blue eyes.

"Thank you."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and drummed his fingers against the chair's armrest, finally giving into his bad habit. "I do have one condition, however."

John's brows drew together. "And what might that be?"

"I'm not going to spend time with Mary," Sherlock said flatly.

John frowned and sat up straighter. "Sherlock—"

"No," he interrupted resolutely. "I will not. And I sincerely hope you never bring my friendship with you into question because of this. I care about you, John, and you are important to me, but this is something I cannot do. At least not right now, anyway."

John seemed caught between frustration and understanding. Eventually, he let out a breath and nodded slowly. "Fine, I get it. If it's too much right now, you don't have to spend time with her."

"Good," Sherlock said with a sharp nod. "Everything is settled, then?"

"I suppose it is," John said, looking just as unsatisfied with the resolution of this conversation as Sherlock felt.

"Well, then I suppose I should return to my bedroom to finish recording my experiment," he said, rising from his chair. In truth, he could have easily written down his data anywhere in the flat, but he desperately needed some time away from John at the moment. With his chin held as high as his wounded heart would allow, Sherlock exited the sitting room.

"You're still my best friend, Sherlock," John called a minute later, almost unthinkingly. Sherlock froze in the doorway with his hand above the doorknob and waited for John to continue. When several beats went by in silence and it became clear John wasn't going to speak again, Sherlock released the breath he'd been holding and proceeded into his bedroom as if he hadn't stopped at all.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you all so much for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments, your feedback is food for my writer soul!**

 **Chapter 2 will be up by next Sunday, so don't forget to subscribe!**

 **You can find me on Tumblr at sienna-221b.**

 **Until then, everyone! :)**


	2. Moving On, Moving Out

**A/N: Hi, everyone! Thank you so much for leaving such encouraging comments on chapter one, I'm so pleased to see that you're all just as excited about this story as I am :) Oh, and a big hello and thank you to those lovely individuals who came here from Love Ballads for the Nonbelievers! We're off on another journey, darlings!**

 **As I mentioned before, the POV will switch between John and Sherlock; this week we get to see things from John's perspective!**

 **Question from a commenter: Will Mary be a villain in this story?**

 **Answer: NO. She is simply John's well-intentioned girlfriend (though she is still a Johnlock obstacle).**

 **I hope you guys enjoy this week's installment, and please don't forget to leave some feedback! :)**

* * *

As painful as the experience of Sherlock's 'death' had been, their time apart had forced John to come to a few very important revelations.

For one, he'd finally let go of his insecurities and made peace with the fact that he was not straight. 'Bisexual' still felt like a foreign word on his lips, so he never actually said it out loud, but he felt a bit better about himself now that a small piece of his internal puzzle had been solved. The second and far more difficult conclusion had been that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. For most of their friendship, he'd tried to convince himself that what he felt for Sherlock was purely platonic, both due to fear of rejection and his own insecurities about his sexuality. It had taken Sherlock's death for John to finally acknowledge that what he felt for the man was completely different than anything he'd ever felt for a mere 'friend'. The truth was, he loved him in the same way he once thought he could only love a woman. John had been heartbroken at his demise not only because his best friend was gone, but because his final chance at true love had died as well.

Though he'd never said anything aloud, John assumed that Sherlock knew how he felt, because _everyone_ knew. Even when they'd first moved in together all those years ago, complete strangers used to assume they were together. Of course, John had always been quick to deny those assumptions, partially out of fear of being branded with a label he wasn't entirely comfortable with, and partially to assuage whatever indignation Sherlock might have felt at the implication. The result had always been a defensive and somewhat panicked pronouncement of " _I am not gay!",_ which usually earned him a confused frown from the speaker and a mildly annoyed but otherwise unreadable look from Sherlock.

So, when Sherlock returned after his two-year absence, John was certain something was going to happen. He wasn't sure _what_ exactly, but the moment that Sherlock showed up on the front porch that one fateful evening, he was sure things were going to change. It only made sense that there would be a shift in their relationship after such a momentous reunion. They spent the rest of the night talking in the sitting room and sorting through all the anger, sorrow, relief, and acceptance that accompanied the detective's sudden return, and by the end, John felt that they had reached a satisfying mutual understanding. At that moment, the two of them seemed to be on the brink of something incredibly significant: a new chapter of their lives. When Sherlock moved back in, John figured it was only a matter of time before the damn broke and five years of unspoken feelings crashed through the flat like a flood.

However, instead of grand proclamations, heartfelt confessions, and (sorely-awaited) requited love, they simply fell back into their normal routine, and the flood never came.

They still got takeout on the weekends and watched movies on the sofa, and bickered back and forth like an old married couple, but Sherlock seemed to be making a conscious effort to keep his distance. The number of times their hands accidentally brushed dropped to almost zero, and Sherlock was careful to avoid bumping shoulders with John when they walked side-by-side on the pavement. His gaze didn't linger like it used to, and he always maintained a minimum of twelve inches of space between their bodies, even when they were just examining a crime scene together. Before the Fall, he and Sherlock hadn't been the most demonstrative of duos, but they certainly weren't as physically isolated from each other as they were now.

What was particularly frustrating was that Sherlock was not consistent. Perhaps if he'd kept up his avoidant behavior, John would have received the message loud and clear, and abandoned all hope. But, unfortunately, Sherlock was just as baffling in this area as he was in any other, and developed a habit of vacillating between carefully detached and desperately affectionate. Every so often, out of absolutely nowhere, he would guide John along by pressing his hand to the small of John's back, or tangle his fingers with John's and drag him in the direction of something exciting. He also developed a strange and entirely unexpected appreciation for hugs, and indulged in them whenever he could find an excuse. Most of the time, after a particularly difficult case, Sherlock would sweep John in his arms and embrace him so heartily that he nearly crushed him, smugly announcing into John's hair that the case had been solved all thanks to his own brilliance.

But then, just as soon as it came, the wave of affection would ebb and Sherlock would remember himself, shuffle away, and carefully reestablish their respective personal space. It was incredibly, unbelievably confusing, and it left John at loss of what to do.

Mystified and a bit exhausted by all of Sherlock's mixed signals, John resolved to wait for Sherlock to make the next move. Usually, he was not one to sit around and passively hope for things to happen, but in this case, there was far too much at stake. With increasing frequency, John thought back on that night in Angelo's when Sherlock had politely said _"I'm flattered by your interest, John, but I consider myself married to my work"._ That sore memory usually helped to quell his desire. The last thing he wanted to do was force anything on Sherlock, or make him feel that he owed John something. If Sherlock did in fact feel anything for John, he needed to announce it of his own accord, not out of a feeling of obligation.

In the meantime, John reentered the dating pool, mostly for the sake of distracting himself. With a heavy heart, he courted a string of women whose names he forgot the moment they broke up with him, and continued uselessly pining after the stupid sodding _brilliant_ git he was currently living with.

…

Meeting Mary Morstan was something he really hadn't accounted for. The women he dated were meant to be mere diversions, but Mary was quite unlike the rest and somehow managed to catch his eye. She was funny and pretty and incredibly patient, and she didn't care that his best friend was mad, or that he had a truckload of emotional baggage, or that he only had a small portion of time to offer her.

John fell for Mary quickly and easily. From the moment he met her, he could picture their lives unfolding so vividly that it felt as if he were peering through a photo album. He could see the two of them smiling at the altar of a modest, lilac-and-buttercream themed wedding with all of their friends and family cheering and snapping pictures. He could see them and their bright-eyed, blonde-haired children living in a roomy cottage on the outskirts of the city, where the bustling roads turned into rolling green hills and the air was sweet and clear of smog. He could see a garden where they grew their own vegetables, his-and-her sets of towels, and a cabinet full of colorful mugs from the many places they travelled together. In the twilight of their lives, he could picture their wrinkled hands intertwined as they reminisced about the past with the pensive, contented air of a couple that had truly withstood the test of time.

That was the kind of life he would have with Mary. And while John wasn't entirely certainly that was what he wanted, it was certainly a better alternative to living out the rest of his days with unrequited love brooding on his shoulders.

John loved Mary. Of course he did. He would have been a fool if he didn't love her, right?

Whereas Sherlock was all hard lines and sharp, masculine angles (cheekbones, jawline, collarbones, hips), Mary was soft and curvy and undeniably feminine. Whereas Sherlock doled out smiles like rare gems, Mary offered her laughter and dimpled grins with the generosity and abundance of a flower girl showering a wedding aisle with petals. Whereas Sherlock was cutting and blunt with his words, Mary was gentle, kind, and patient, so attuned to the emotions of others that she almost never caused offense.

But for some indiscernible reason, in John's eyes, Mary was lacking something vital. She was beautiful, of course, and her eyes lit up like stage lights when she smiled, but there was no brilliant glow lying beneath her skin. John's heart didn't stutter to a halt when she said she loved him, and his chest didn't ache with fullness when they kissed. She should have been the most perfect woman in the world for him, yet he still found himself longing for more.

…

As strange as it was, John's decision to move in with Mary had very little to do with her.

Sherlock had been examining something under his microscope at the dinner table one evening, his goggles pushing back his wild tangle of dark curls and his pen frantically jotting down something about horse saliva, when John had realized two important things. One, that Sherlock Holmes was physically incapable of looking unattractive, even when he clearly hadn't showered in days and his hair was a literal bird's nest. And two, John realized that as besotted as he was with his ridiculous, unbearable, utterly wonderful flat mate, there was no chance of their 'relationship' going anywhere. It had been more than six long, fruitless months and nothing had occurred. He would never be able to walk over and push those goggles aside, stroke back Sherlock's hair, and tell him how beautiful he was. He'd never be allowed to come up from behind him, kiss the side of his face, and wrap his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. He'd never be able to do anything more than admire him from a distance, like a lonely man might look upon an untouchable constellation of stars.

He wasn't sure why this particular moment sparked this revelation, as it was a rather unremarkable scene, but once he got it in his head, he couldn't seem to look past it. This thing that they had, whatever it was, had reached its peak and was never going to grow. John had to accept that fact and move on.

Sherlock had made it painfully clear on that first night that he had no romantic inclinations towards John. Married to his work, he was. Flattered by John's interest, but not looking for anything. Evidently, that was still the case. _Friends_ is what they were. Best friends, even, but nothing more.

Mary, on the other hand, did want him. She kissed him, hugged him, grinned at him, and most importantly, she _needed_ him. Mary told him that she missed him even when they'd only been apart for a few hours. Mary wasn't ashamed of her feelings for him and was not afraid of making her affection clear. Mary _loved_ him.

So, despite his lingering misgivings, five months after their first date, John took Mary out to dinner, dazzled her with a bouquet of pink roses and a silver heart pendant, smiled, and said, "How do you feel about living together?"

* * *

 _Moving day:_

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock seemed to have no intention of making this process easy.

After sulking around the flat and being aggressively unhelpful for an hour and a half, he'd relegated himself to the sofa, where he was currently informing John on which items he was permitted to take and which items had to remain.

"Sherlock," John said with an annoyed huff, "this is _my_ sodding clock. I bought it before I even moved in. You poured acid into the back of _your_ clock, remember?"

Sherlock scowled and draped a forearm over his eyes. "I hope you realize that if you take that clock, I will never replace it, and I'll forever be oblivious to the time."

John rolled his eyes and dropped the clock into the 'Going' box. "You have a smartphone and six different wristwatches, Sherlock. I think you'll be fine."

"Fine. But you have to leave that oatmeal colored jumper," Sherlock declared, removing his arm to stare at John.

John gave him an incredulous look. "Why on earth would you get my jumper?"

There was a beat of silence, before Sherlock cleared his throat and said with dignity, "It's my favorite jumper. And I want to keep it because I…want to wear it."

Though he hadn't sounded so sure of himself during the latter bit of that sentence, he refused to drop the defiant look on his face.

"You want to wear it," John deadpanned. "You, a man who wears nothing but designer shoes and hundred pound suits, would like to wear the cable-knit jumper I got on sale at TK Maxx."

John wasn't sure if it was just the light playing tricks, but Sherlock's cheeks seemed to be going a bit pink. "John, it's none of your business what fashion choices I make. You don't even care for that particular jumper, so I don't see why I can't just have it."

Lately, John had been getting quite adept at telling whether or not Sherlock was lying. He wasn't sure if it was because he was growing sharper, or if Sherlock was simply becoming more of an open book, but either way, he knew the telltale signs of a fib. Avoiding eye contact, flushed cheeks, and a petulant expression were all key indicators, and at the moment, Sherlock was expressing all three. Clearly, Sherlock had no intention of wearing the sweater for its aesthetic value, but for whatever reason, he wanted it anyway. Considering the abruptness of John's departure and the gaping hole he was bound to leave behind, John figured he owed Sherlock this one small thing, at least.

"Fine," John said, removing the bundle of wool from one of the boxes to his left. He tossed it and Sherlock snagged it out of the air like a Frisbee. "Take it. But please, for my sake, don't use it in one of your mad experiments."

"I wouldn't," Sherlock said, staring down at the jumper with a strange look on his face. He sat up and resumed crossing his arms, though now that the sweater was in his possession, it looked like he was clutching it to his chest.

"Okay, what about this?" John asked, holding up the small ceramic elephant Mrs. Hudson had given them for Christmas three years ago. It was glossy and eggshell-white, with an intricate blue and gold pattern swirling around its trunk.

Sherlock frowned. "That was meant for both of us."

The simple phrase made a pang of reluctance stir in John's chest. As firm as he was in his decision to move, there was still a large part of him that wanted to cling desperately to this flat and to Sherlock. "You can keep it," John said after a beat, placing it back down on the table. "I think Mary has some statues at the flat already."

At the mention of Mary, the light in Sherlock's eyes dimmed and his shoulders seemed to wilt. "Right."

John cleared his throat and moved onto the next thing before he was forced to stop and analyze the dull ache behind his ribcage. "Well, what about the skull, then? Are you willing to part with such a charming decoration?" he joked.

Sherlock stared at the skull for a long time and then looked to John with a serious expression. "Take it."

John slowly stopped smiling. "Sherlock, I was kidding. It's yours, there's no reason for me to take it. You've had it since before I moved in."

"I know," he said, his fingers absently running over the raised pattern on the jumper. "But it no longer serves its purpose."

Before John could ask what he meant, he was hit with a memory of their first day together, when Sherlock had been eagerly (and somewhat nervously) giving him a tour of the flat. John had pointed at the skull on the mantle, and what had Sherlock said?

 _"_ _Oh, that's a friend of mine."_

Of course, at the time, John had wondered if it was some macabre joke, or if that really was the skull of someone Sherlock knew. Later that night, when Sherlock had casually mentioned that he preferred talking to John over the skull, he'd thought nothing of it. Now, though, he wondered if the skull had been a 'substitute' for a companion—something to speak to in order to feel less lonely.

And now, in John's absence, it wouldn't serve as an adequate replacement, because he'd experienced the real thing. The thought made John want to cross the room and hold Sherlock as fiercely as Sherlock was holding his jumper, but he refrained, because he knew that if Sherlock reciprocated the embrace even slightly, John would lose his resolve to leave.

"Thank you," John said, carefully placing it at the top of the pile so it wouldn't get crushed. He didn't like the symbolic gesture of removing Sherlock's only remaining 'friend' from the flat, but he wanted to keep something that would remind him of Sherlock. He resolved to display it on his nightstand, where he'd always be able to see it.

Sherlock eyed the sea of boxes with brooding eyes. "Are you quite sure you want to do this, John?"

This was not the first time Sherlock had posed this question this month; it was the seventeenth. From the day he'd broken the news to Sherlock up until right now, Sherlock had been repeating the phrase constantly, in a wide range of contexts. Sometimes, he said it mockingly, scathingly, while giving John a look that clearly said, ' _Really_ , John?'. Other times, he said it flippantly, carelessly tossing it out of his mouth with a childlike sort of petulance. Right now, however, he said it sadly, a final morose plea.

"Yes," John answered with a confidence he didn't quite feel. "Just remember what I said, okay?"

The dejection on Sherlock's face was replaced by irritation. "Yes, John, you've only said it a thousand times," he snapped, lying back down on the sofa with a harsh swish of his dressing gown. "We're not going to grow apart, we'll still spend time together, so on so forth," Sherlock quoted sarcastically. "I get it, John. I hear you loud and clear."

"But you don't believe me," John said, finishing the thought.

The sneer on Sherlock face wavered. "Of course not," he said with a halfhearted scoff. "People move on with their lives, John. I've seen it happen before and now I'm watching it happen again."

"Stop."

Sherlock frowned and turned to look at him, clearly caught off guard. "What?"

John exhaled steadily and stood up. "You heard me, Sherlock. I said _stop_. You're my best friend, and just because I'm moving in with Mary, doesn't mean I'm going to cut you out of my life. I will _never_ do that, do you understand me? Never. I only just got you back, there's no way I'm losing you again."

Sherlock sat up once more, his curly hair angry and unruly and his face filled with frustration. "Then why do you have to leave at all? Why can't you just stay?"

John didn't know how to articulate that if he stayed, he'd be resigning himself to a fate of useless pining and heartache, and he'd already had enough of that for a lifetime. Perhaps it was selfish to want to leave Sherlock for the sake of preserving his own feelings, but sometimes it was necessary to be a bit selfish. If Sherlock told him right now that he loved John, or even that he _could_ love John sometime down the road, John would drop his bags and heartlessly abandon his plans with Mary. It would be as simple as that.

But, unfortunately, that was not going to happen. Sherlock had been back for an entire year and not a single hint of his feelings had surfaced, so it was exceptionally unlikely that he was going to say anything now, mere hours before John's departure.

"Sherlock, it's complicated," John said, taping down the lid of the final box. John knew it was probably one of the stupidest, most vague answers he'd ever given, but he couldn't think of a better way to phrase it. The truth was, it _was_ complicated, and it would have taken the rest of the night for John to break it down and explain every single facet to Sherlock. "Just know that I have to do this, okay?"

Sherlock stood up from the couch, his eyes looking quite tired all of a sudden, and his curls still in rampant disarray. "Fine," he said flatly. He tugged a hand through his hair and turned to retreat to his bedroom, but after a few steps, he paused with his back turned to John.

With tense shoulders and a shaky exhale, he added, "You might as well take the elephant too."

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you so much for reading, everyone! Please let me know what you think, I love hearing your guys' opinions! Even though it's been angst 101 so far, I promise things will lighten up in a few chapters when Janine finally makes her appearance. :)**

 **Chapter three will be up next Sunday, so I shall see you all in a week! xoxo**


	3. Pints and Plans

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter, I love hearing all of your opinions/feedback :) In response to a very popular sentiment, I'd like to say that I KNOW John is being an idiot, but he has his reasons. Just keep in mind that both he and Sherlock are utterly terrible at communicating, they're both afraid of being hurt, and they're both convinced that their love is unrequited. Dumb Pining™ is simply a must-have when it comes to Johnlock, I'm afraid ;)**

 **I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! Writing Lestrade Sherlock's night out was great fun :)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

John's jumper, as it turned out, was not a sufficient replacement for the man himself.

For sentimental reasons he preferred to ignore, Sherlock spent the days following John's departure with the jumper within two feet of him at all times. When he jotted down notes at the kitchen table, the bundle of oatmeal colored fabric resided directly beneath his arm. When he played his violin, he draped it over his shoulder like a fine cape. When he stomped about the flat in search of some misplaced item or another, there it was, clenched in his fist like a stress ball. He even stowed it beneath his pillow and slept with it at night, though that particular action was not something he was terribly proud of, as it sounded quite sad when he said it out loud (which he had, to the ceramic elephant that John left behind, seeing as his skull was no longer present).

Carrying around John's jumper was the only thing Sherlock did with any sort of consistency, while everything else—his hygiene, the cleanliness of the flat, _The Science of Deduction_ —fell by the wayside. Showers were forgotten, breakfasts were skipped, cases were dismissed, and the desire to do anything but lie on the couch and sulk was stamped out like a flame.

Forty-eight hours after John had moved his last box of items into his and Mary's flat, Sherlock texted him.

 _[.jpeg attachment] SH._

 ** _Is that a picture of the sitting room?_**

 _Yes. SH_

 ** _Well, I can barely see it beneath all those papers and books. It was spotless two days ago, what happened?_**

 _I was struck with the sudden need to examine and reorganize all of my possessions. Never quite got around to the organizing bit. SH_

 ** _I can tell. I'm guessing Mrs. Hudson hasn't seen the flat recently?_**

 _No, she's visiting her sister. She comes back in a week, so I have at least three more days until I have to clean up again. SH_

 ** _Well, let me know when you plan on doing that, because I'd love to help._**

Sherlock stared pathetically at his phone, half pleased and half disappointed in himself for being excited about such a flimsy plan. With a sharp beep, another text arrived.

 ** _Find any interesting cases today?_**

 _No, only a few fours and fives. Nothing worth leaving the flat for. SH_

As averse as he was to the topic, Sherlock couldn't help but ask:

 _How have things been in the new flat? SH_

 ** _Great! Bit weird not hearing violin at 3am, but I suppose I'll just have to get used to that._**

 _I could make a CD of my music for you, if you'd like. It would be no trouble. I've been composing quite a lot, lately. SH_

The truth was, he actually hadn't composed at all in the past few days—his muse was always silent when his emotions become too noisy and distracting—but he was more than willing to sit down and write a whole album for John if that was what John wanted.

 ** _That sounds incredible, Sherlock, thank you!_**

Sherlock smiled, and was halfway through typing his response when his phone beeped with another message.

 ** _Shoot, Mary and I are apparently going silverware shopping. I'll call you later, OK?_**

Immediately, the pleased expression drained from his face. Silverware shopping? That sounded like something a newlywed couple did on the weekend. With a sigh of resignation, Sherlock laid his phone facedown on the coffee table and didn't bother replying.

* * *

On Tuesday evening, four and a half days after the Big Move, Lestrade stopped by, presumably to see how Sherlock was fairing in the wake of John's departure. To the D.I's surprise (and perhaps horror), when he pushed open the unlocked door of 221B and peered into the sitting room, he found Sherlock lying on the sofa amidst a landfill-like sea of crumpled paper and disheveled books, wearing one of the oddest, most ill-fitting outfits either of them had ever seen. Sherlock was quite certain the sight of him answered Lestrade's unspoken question of ' _How have you been?'._

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, half his body still behind the door, as if he was no longer sure he wanted to fully enter the room. "What on _earth_ are you wearing?"

Sherlock, feeling sulky and more than a bit dramatic, rested the back of his wrist on his forehead and muttered, "An accurate representation of my life at the moment."

And it was true, in a way. He was currently wearing a pair of dress pants, a cotton pyjama t-shirt, two different socks, a scarf, and, most importantly, John's jumper. It was an unappealing, nonsensical combination, but it conveyed his unappealing, nonsensical emotions perfectly.

"Right," Lestrade said, scratching his head and walking in the rest of the way, evidently having decided that it wasn't worth it to turn back now. "Well, I just wanted to come by and see how you've been, maybe offer you a case or two if you're not busy."

Sherlock turned to look at him with a scowl. "Translation: you pity me now that John is gone and wish to occupy my fretting mind with simple tasks, as one might do with a child and a coloring book."

Lestrade sidestepped the accusation and dropped his gaze to Sherlock's torso. "Isn't that John's?"

Sherlock sniffed with dignity and plucked an invisible piece of lint from his lapel. "It's a jumper, Lestrade."

"I can see that. Why are you wearing it?"

"Because I want to," Sherlock snapped, far too drained to concoct a more elegant argument.

"Sherlock, that thing is way too small for you," Lestrade pointed out. "I mean, _look_ at yourself."

Sherlock followed the order and looked down at the himself, unsurprised to find that Lestrade was indeed correct: it _was_ too small. Whereas John was short and stocky, Sherlock was gangly and lean, so the clothing choices that looked flattering on John, looked absolutely terrible on Sherlock. The hem fell three inches above his waistline and exposed his navel, giving the impression that he was attempting to wear a cable-knit crop top, and the sleeves were built for far shorter arms, so both of his wrists were plainly visible.

"It's comfortable," Sherlock muttered, fighting the urge to cross his arms over his chest. "I don't need to explain myself to you, Lestrade."

Though the Detective Inspector remained silent, Sherlock could practically feel the pity wafting from him. While Sherlock was not particularly concerned with his appearance at the moment, he could objectively understand that the image he posed was not one that inspired respect and reassurance. If anything, the mismatched clothing and clearly unwashed hair were indications of the exact opposite.

"How would you feel about maybe getting a pint with me?" Lestrade asked eventually.

Sherlock immediately turned over, buried his face in the cushions, and groaned in complaint. _"_ No, I will not get beer with you in a noisy pub filled with drunk cretins and sleazy commoners. Of all the plebian, intolerably unpleasant things you could have possibly suggested, I can't believe you chose _that._ I can hardly fathom a world wherein I would even entertain the possible notion of…"

This went on for about a minute.

Lestrade, who had always been incredibly patient when it came to Sherlock, simply stood there and waited, his hands tucked comfortably in his back pockets. Once thirty seconds passed without a renewed bellow of disgust, Lestrade cleared his throat and said, "Finished?"

Sherlock lifted his face from the upholstery, his hair in disarray and his expression sulky. "You still want to go out after that?"

Lestrade nodded. "I do."

Sherlock leapt to his feet, nimble as a cat, and peered at Lestrade with narrowed eyes. "Why?"

"Because I'd like to spend time with you, Sherlock."

Sherlock snorted derisively and crossed his arms over his chest. "Lestrade, you and I both know that is not true. Please just tell me the truth so I can go back to what I was doing."

"Sherlock, we've known each other for nearly ten years, is it really so odd to think we should hang out together?"

"Yes, Lestrade, it is odd. The last time we bonded outside of the Yard, you were dragging me back to my rehabilitation center," Sherlock said flatly. He felt no shame in referencing his past drug abuse or Lestrade's role in helping him abandon it. That was the basis of their relationship, after all: Sherlock did something mad and reckless, and Lestrade cleaned up after him. Though he was not proud of his past, he wasn't ashamed of it either.

"Great, well is that the only memory you'd like to have of you and I spending time together?" Lestrade asked. "Me carrying you through the doors of bloody Sanctuary Lodge?"

Sherlock examined his cuticles. "I know what this is about, Lestrade. You're feeling lonely now that your divorce has been finalized, and you think that spending time with me will make you feel better. Misery loves company, correct?"

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. "That's not what this is, Sherlock."

"Yes, yes it is," Sherlock retorted sharply. "You believe that you've been abandoned in the same way that I have, so you'd like to go out and bond over that fact. Well, I hate to break it you, Lestrade, but your sorry excuse for a marriage has nothing in common with the complex situation I am currently dealing with, so if you could kindly take your pity and misguided intentions out of this flat, I would appreciate it immensely—"

"Fine! I'll spell it out for you!" Lestrade cried, throwing his hands into the air in defeat. "I want to get a pint with you because I know you miss John, and I think you could use some company, alright? Is that so bloody bad? Why the hell are you being so difficult? Would you please just let me do a nice thing without interrogating me like a sodding criminal for once?"

Red-faced and exasperated, Lestrade reminded him of John during of one of their many domestic squabbles. It made something sharp and sweet ache within his chest, and for a moment, Sherlock forgot that he was supposed to be annoyed with Lestrade's offer.

"Okay," he blurted out after a long stretch of silence, his voice surprisingly agreeable.

Lestrade looked startled by his compliance, but seemed to recognize that he shouldn't question it. He cleared his throat and smoothed back his hair with a palm, the redness and frustration fading from his features. "Um, alright, great. Anywhere you'd like to go in particular? Favorite pub?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Lestrade, do you really think that I am the kind of person who frequents pubs? I've only gone to one, and it was at John's behest."

"Do you remember what it was called?"

Of course he remembered, his memory was flawless. "The Lion's Head. It's on the corner of Lalour and Flemmings."

"Would you like to go there?"

It didn't seem wise to go lurking around a place that contained very recent memories of John, but Sherlock couldn't resist the temptation of basking in nostalgia. Besides, the alternative was moping around the flat, leafing through newspaper clippings from his and John's old cases, and toting John's jumper around like a security blanket, so the choice seemed quite clear.

"Fine. I'll go," Sherlock decided.

"Good. But, Sherlock?"

"What?"

Lestrade gave him an amused once-over and grabbed his coat from the hook by the door. "If we're going to be seen in public together, you're going to need to change that outfit."

…

The Lion's Head, like most pubs, was crowded, noisy, and filled with a cacophony of odd smells.

Lestrade sat down on one of the stools by the bar and gestured for Sherlock to do the same. With a quick wave of his hand, he managed to get two ice-cold mugs of beer in less than a minute.

"Here you go, mate," Lestrade said, handing the drink to Sherlock.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the offering. "I don't drink beer."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and returned the glass to its place on the bar. "Too posh for some lager?"

"I can't stand the taste," Sherlock said with a sniff. "I only drink whiskey or wine, and even then, only in small doses. Judging by the bags under your eyes and the twitch in your left hand, you clearly have every intention of indulging tonight, so please, don't let my sobriety stop you."

Lestrade huffed and shook his head, bringing the beer to his lips. "You know, you're a real piece of work, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock folded his hands atop the bar and peered into the mirror behind the racks of liquor, his pale eyes raptly following the flurry of activity behind him. "So I've been told."

"So, when did you and John come here?" Lestrade asked, after sucking the foam from the top of his drink. "Recently?"

"We came here for his birthday a few months ago," Sherlock answered absently, staring at his reflection behind the bar. His eyes looked much dimmer than they had several weeks ago, and his cheekbones seemed to be more prominent. He couldn't quite remember if he'd eaten breakfast this morning, or the morning before, but given his rather thin appearance, it seemed unlikely.

"Just you and him, or were some of his mates there too?"

"Just John and I," Sherlock said. He hated that the note of longing in his voice was as clear as a bell. "He insisted on coming here because they apparently serve the 'best' beer. I cannot personally attest to that, but John seemed pleased enough with the quality of their beverages."

"Did you two have fun?"

A small, sad smile briefly crossed Sherlock's features. "Yes, I believe we did."

That night had been one of the many instances wherein Sherlock had been on the brink of finally confessing his feelings. The entire evening had been a perfect combination of affectionate companionship and lighthearted conversation, the bar had been mostly empty, and the two of them had been sitting within inches of each other, talking quietly about deductions, cases, and silly anecdotes with secretive smiles on their faces. Sherlock remembered that it had felt exceptionally intimate, given the dim lighting and their impossibly close proximity. However, right as he'd been mentally articulating his long-awaited confession, John had received a phone call from the woman he was seeing at the time, Laura. He didn't answer the first time out of courtesy to Sherlock, but after three more rings, he finally gave in and picked up. After that, the mood had been ruined, as Sherlock was rather painfully reminded that John had no interest in pursuing him, as was evident by his endless parade of girlfriends.

Memories like this frustrated Sherlock just as much as they comforted him. While it was quite nice to wrap himself in fond recollections like sun-warmed sheets on a Sunday morning, it was terribly painful to dwell on all of the lost potential that plagued his past.

"Hey, earth to Sherlock," Lestrade said, waving his hand before Sherlock's glazed-over eyes. "You okay?"

Sherlock blinked out of his daze and cleared his throat, suddenly feeling quite restless. "I'm fine."

For the sake of occupying his fidgety hands, he took some peanuts from the dish on the bar and absently arranged them into separate lines. One, two, three peanuts tilted to the right, four, five, six peanuts titled to the left, seven, eight, nine—

"What are you doing?"

"It's either this or smoking," Sherlock answered distractedly, turning another peanut into the correct position. He never used to indulge in his odd habits so openly—he'd always been careful to avoid drumming his fingers, tearing the edges of napkins, or gnawing at the edge of his thumbnail, because he knew it made him seem anxious, apprehensive, and nervous. But his two years away had unfortunately eroded the careful control he'd spent most of his young adulthood trying to gain. Nowadays, he found himself helplessly giving into the urge to tap his foot, periodically bite the inside of his cheek, or arrange random items into order. For whatever reason, these strange little ticks made him feel a bit more in control of his life, even if they were exceptionally insignificant. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted to call these tendencies a _disorder,_ but they were certainly obsessive and compulsive, and they'd only worsened in John's absence.

Sherlock chanced a look at Lestrade's face and was surprised to find there was no judgement there. Instead, he looked sympathetic.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

"Like what?"

"Like you…understand me."

Lestrade smiled a bit and took another swig of his drink. "Well, mate, I hate to break it to you, but you aren't the only one who's been forced to develop coping methods."

"What are your coping methods?"

"Smoking," Lestrade answered dryly. "Well, that and playing rugby on the weekend with mates."

"I'm sure a physician would argue that the latter is a healthier choice," Sherlock said. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal two nicotine patches. "However, I'm really not one to talk."

Lestrade huffed a laugh. "Who is, these days?"

Sherlock sighed and took another handful of peanuts, absently spreading them out across the bar. "John, probably. He's very good at dealing with things, no matter how difficult they are."

Lestrade watched him arrange the nuts into another set of perfect rows, and then took a long swig of beer. "You miss him, don't you?"

Sherlock's frown deepened. "I—

"Oi! For Christ's sake, stop wasting the bar snacks," the bartender barked, stomping over and flattening Sherlock's hand against the hardwood surface.

Sherlock stared down at his hand where it was trapped between the bartender's sweaty paw and the spread of peanuts, and calmly contemplated what to do next. He could justifiably fly into a rage and tear his hand away, perhaps threaten to sue. Or he could scathingly deduce the man's entire life, right down to the unfaithful girlfriend and severe lactose intolerance.

The bartender was tall, muscular, and covered from neck to wrist in tattoos—the complete picture of daunting, aggressive masculinity. He was quite certain the man expected him to shrink away in fear or meekly apologize. Unfortunately for the bartender, Sherlock didn't feel like doing either of those things.

"Kindly let go of my hand," Sherlock said evenly, staring up into the bartender's dark, beady eyes.

"I've been watching you spread those peanuts across my sodding bar for twenty minutes, and I'm sick of it," he said through gritted teeth, tightening his grip on Sherlock's hand. He could feel the bones of his knuckles rubbing together, thanks to the man's iron-like hold. "Now, get your arse off that stool and get the hell out of here, you bloody _freak_."

Just when Sherlock was contemplating how quickly he could extricate himself and then physically retaliate, Lestrade stood up suddenly, his face stony and hard-jawed in a way Sherlock had never seen before.

"Sir, I'd like to inform you that it is against the law to physically assault someone," Lestrade said coolly. In one smooth motion, he pulled his badge from the inside of his jacket and held it before the bartender's eyes. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard. Pleasure to meet you."

The bartender swallowed and released Sherlock's hand immediately, stepping backwards. "Officer," he muttered with a nod.

"I'd hate to bring you down to the station for nearly breaking my friend's hand, so what do you say we forget about this whole incident and peacefully go about our evenings?"

Like a stubborn child being chastised, the bartender cut his eyes at Sherlock and scowled. "He can do whatever the hell he wants, as long as it ain't here, in _my_ bar."

"Fine," Sherlock said carelessly, rising from the stool with an air of aloofness. "I'd rather take my business elsewhere, anyway. Your rat infestation is bound to garner the attention of the FSA any day now, so I doubt you'll be around for much longer." He offered a sharp smile and then turned on his heel.

"Come, Lestrade," he called over his shoulder. "He's thinking about punching me again."

…

"I suppose I should thank you for defending my honor back there," Sherlock commented as they stepped out the cab and onto the pavement in front of 221B. He was mostly being sarcastic, but a small part of him couldn't help but feel genuinely grateful. It was nice to know that he still had people in his life who were willing to stand up for him.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "The guy was being an arse, I did what I had to do. Besides, it doesn't hurt to pull rank every now and then. Does wonders for the ego."

Sherlock was instantly hit with the bittersweet memory of John proudly announcing, " _John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart's 'bloody' Hospital"._

"Well, either way, thank you," Sherlock said.

"No problem." Lestrade offered Sherlock a smile. "You know, Sherlock, I really enjoyed tonight."

"As shocking as I find this, I had a good time as well," Sherlock admitted.

"Good. I'm chuffed," Lestrade said with a warm laugh. He sobered a bit and gave Sherlock's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "And just so you know, Sherlock, I think you're going to be fine. I promise everything's going to work out in the end. Now then, I better go, the car's running."

It was then that something very strange occurred to Sherlock. Abruptly, he leapt forward and grabbed Lestrade's upper arm, stopping him before he could walk back to the cab. "Wait!"

Lestrade froze and gave him a startled look. "What? Is there something behind—

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. He narrowed his eyes and tried to examine Lestrade's features with the most objective eye possible. Generally speaking, Lestrade was a good looking man. He had a strong nose, pleasantly-shaped brown eyes, smartly styled silver hair, and there often seemed to be a wry, knowing tilt to his mouth, as if he were aware of some inside joke that no one else was privy to. He had an air of authority and masculinity about him, a rather charming accent, and he was a healthy number of years ahead of Sherlock.

All of those things were, objectively speaking, Sherlock's 'type'. So, why didn't he find Lestrade attractive? This was the first time he'd ever tried to imagine Lestrade in any context aside from 'slightly annoying but otherwise good friend', and it was making his head spin. Why didn't he feel the same way about Lestrade that he did about John? Why was John Watson a glowing star amidst a bleak galaxy, while Lestrade was just a man, albeit a companionable one? Why had he been able to spend half the night with Lestrade in virtually the same setting he'd shared with John, without feeling anything but platonic fondness?

"Sherlock, you're really starting to freak me out with all that staring," Lestrade said, tearing Sherlock from his reverie. "Did you sneak yourself a few pints when I wasn't looking or something?"

And just like that, reality flooded back in and Sherlock found his answer. It was because Lestrade liked football, raunchy jokes, and terrible sitcoms on telly. Lestrade thought that movies wherein dogs could talk were hilarious, and that the big-breasted women in beer ads were the pinnacle of human excellence. And while those were perfectly acceptable traits to have in a friend, Lestrade was not luminous in the way that John was; he didn't ignite Sherlock's brilliance or inspire him in any way. When Sherlock stared at the lines around Lestrade's eyes, he saw unremarkable signs of aging, but in John, he saw a topography of laughter, pain, loss, and triumph, all strung together into a collage of rugged, unfettered beauty. And unlike Lestrade whose job it was to boom at people and order them around, John's authority was completely innate. It bled from his pores even when he was simply standing in the back of a room, his gaze steady, his spine straight, and his chin raised ever so slightly. He was a bundle of walking contradictions: a solider wearing a fluffy jumper, a doctor bearing multiple wounds. He was patient and irritable, beautiful and dangerous, loyal and wary. He was a puzzle that Sherlock would never be able to figure out.

He was more certain now than ever that John truly was a one of a kind man, which he found both reassuring and disheartening.

"Thank you, Lestrade," Sherlock said with a sigh, removing his hand from Lestrade's shoulder.

"For what?"

"For reminding me why I don't find you attractive," Sherlock said plainly.

"Wow. Well, uh, you're welcome, I guess," Lestrade said slowly, as if he wasn't sure whether or not he should take offense.

"I like you as a friend," Sherlock clarified, patting his shoulder. "You are a very, very admirable _friend_."

"Well, that's…good," Lestrade said, still quite confused.

Sherlock was tempted to further clarify that he was in love with John and that this interaction had only served to strengthen his feelings, but it didn't seem right to confess this secret to anyone but the man himself. So, instead, he continued with, "And I suppose I ought to thank you for tonight. I know I am not easy to deal with at times and I appreciate this gesture."

"Sherlock, you are a very strange bloke," Lestrade said, shaking his head with a laugh. "I can never seem to follow that train of thought of yours."

"Many can't," Sherlock said with a crooked smile.

* * *

A week after John had moved in, as they were washing the dishes together, Mary asked about Sherlock.

"How has he been, love? I know you said you were texting him the other day."

"He's been fine," John lied. The photo of the disheveled, messy flat seemed to be an indication that Sherlock certainly _wasn't_ fine, but admitting that out loud meant revealing Sherlock's vulnerability, and John wasn't willing to do that. Getting to know Sherlock's 'softer' side was a privilege not everyone was granted, so he felt the need to protect Sherlock's feelings from unworthy onlookers.

"Fine?" Mary questioned, raising a disbelieving eyebrow at John. "Dear, his best friend moved out a week ago. I doubt he's fine."

"He didn't seem too upset when we talked," John replied with a shrug.

Mary handed him the dishtowel and he proceeded to dry off another plate, the two of them working in calculated tandem. As pleasant as their first week together had been, it felt nothing like what he'd had at 221B, because in spite of the constant chaos that had taken place there— Sherlock flailing his limbs and messily working on an experiment while John dodged him and tried to prepare tea—the two of them were always perfectly in sync. If one of Sherlock's vials teetered and fell from the table, John would pluck it from the floor and return it to the ledge, and in the same motion Sherlock would switch off the kettle and return to his chair. If John was reaching for something that was too high up on the shelf, Sherlock would wordlessly grab it for him without even lifting his eyes from his book. If Sherlock was ranting or deducing and John was reading the paper, Sherlock could toss something his way (a hastily shed scarf, a notepad, etc.) and John would catch it without missing a beat. They moved around each other so fluidly that John was hardly ever conscience of their effortless rhythm. They were perfectly symbiotic: automatically aware of where the other was without even looking. It was like a dance; John filled the spaces Sherlock left behind and Sherlock curled around the spaces John made for him.

With Mary, it was quite different. They usually bumped elbows, reached for the same thing at the same time and then awkwardly retreated, or stumbled into each other. And when they _were_ somehow in sync, it felt very forced, very carefully measured, and John couldn't help but feel that he was following stage directions. He hoped this was something that would fade over time.

Another rather glaring difference between Sherlock and Mary was that she adored 'couple activities'. Making the bed, shopping for new silverware, and doing chores together were some of her favorite activities, which was why they were currently side by side at the sink, washing the dishes. It all felt incredibly domestic. And while that wasn't a bad thing by any stretch, John couldn't picture himself washing the dishes with Sherlock. (Somehow, Sherlock's hypothetical reactions had become John's compass for rating things, lately. More often than he would have liked, Sherlock's bored baritone muttered, 'Dull' or 'How plebeian' or ' _Really_ John?' at all the mundanities of his new life.) He imagined that if he'd ever suggested doing something like this with Sherlock, Sherlock would have scoffed, draped himself over the sofa like a cat, and then declared that he was leaving the task in John's highly capable hands.

"I don't care what you say, John, he must be lonely," Mary said with a sigh. "Perhaps I could set him up with one of my friends?"

"What? Why?" John demanded, torn abruptly from his thoughts.

"Because he's _lonely_ , John!" Mary repeated, batting John's arm in chastisement. "It wouldn't hurt to introduce him to someone who might be able to offer him some companionship."

John scrunched his face at the suggestion, his cheeks unaccountably warm all of a sudden. "Mary, I really don't think that _setting him up_ would help him."

"Nonsense, John. What is Sherlock's type?" Mary asked, reaching for the sponge again.

The uncomfortable flush on his face burned hotter. "What?"

"His type, love," Mary said again. "Who is he attracted to?"

"Um, someone intelligent, surely, and…er…" After a moment of fruitlessly grasping for more adjectives, John released a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "To be completely honest, I don't actually know."

And he wasn't even lying: Sherlock's view on love, sexual attraction, and relationships had always been an unfathomable enigma to John.

Mary gave him an amused look from the corner of her eye. "You've been friends with the man for nearly half a decade and you don't know?" At John's helpless expression, Mary moved on and asked another question.

"Okay, well, here's something fairly basic, then: is he interested in men or women?"

"Women," John answered reflexively. Then he stopped and made a confused face at his own answer. "Or men. Both? Neither?"

"Jesus, John, have you just met the man?" Mary asked with a laugh. "He's your best mate but you don't even know his sexuality?"

It wasn't that John hadn't wondered before, because he _had_ , but his musings never really lead him anywhere, so his questions remained unanswered.

"Sherlock isn't exactly the type to broadcast these things," John said eventually.

"Well, has he ever had a boyfriend?"

Irrational, boiling hot jealousy scorched through John's chest at the mere suggestion. Careful to keep his features schooled into a passably neutral expression, John gripped the edge of the sink and casually replied, "Not to my knowledge, no."

"Has he ever had a girlfriend?"

In sharp contrast to the previous reaction, John's first instinct was to laugh. The idea of Sherlock with a woman seemed ridiculous for some reason, though John wasn't entirely sure why. Irene Adler was a woman and Sherlock had clearly been drawn to her, but that could hardly be used as proof considering how many strange nuances had been part of that situation. Namely, that Irene was apparently gay and that Sherlock had turned down dozens of opportunities to sleep with her, despite her many persistent offers.

Sherlock never said he was any particular orientation, so he _could_ potentially be interested in women, but it just didn't sit right in John's mind. However, it seemed equally unlikely that Sherlock might be attracted to men. He was so far above the average person that John simply couldn't picture him being romantically interested in anyone, let alone one of Mary's friends. And it wasn't because John thought Sherlock lacked the ability to process affection or love, it just seemed that Sherlock had much better things to do than pursue people. And anyway, what would happen if they _did_ start dating? Sherlock and Mary's friend, John and Mary…how many double dates would they end up going on? Would they have dinners together every week? Would they all have kids and watch them grow up, side by side, in the same neighborhood?

The thought made John cringe.

"No, no girlfriend either. And, you know, I just don't think this whole…blind date thing is something he'd be interested in," John said, his eyes trained on the half-dried soup bowl in his hands.

"Really?" Mary said, the corners of her mouth dipping downward in disappointment. "Because I think he and Janine would get along swimmingly."

As reluctant as John was to discuss this any further, he hated upsetting Mary. He figured the least he could do was pretend to be interested in the idea.

"Okay," he said with an exhale, "what's she like?"

Mary's face lit up like a firework. "She's hilarious and pretty, and so much fun to be around, John," Mary gushed. "She's dark-haired and curvy, he's dark-haired and tall—wouldn't they just look _so_ dashing together?" In her excitement, she'd apparently lost sight of her task, as the kitchen sponge was now carelessly abandoned in the corner of the sink. "John, what do you think? Should I call her?"

In all truth, John did not think this 'Janine' woman would get along with Sherlock at all; he'd met most of Mary's friends and they all shared the same sweet, easily-offended temperament, and if there was one thing Sherlock was _not_ , it was considerate of strangers' feelings. John figured that if the two of them went on a date, Sherlock would insult her within the first five minutes, Janine would leave in a flurry of tears and anger, and they would be left with the exact situation they were currently in. So, it really did no harm to play along with this, right? As long as he could please Mary and change nothing significant in the process, this seemed to be worth it. Besides, it would give him and Sherlock something amusing to talk about in the future.

So, with an easy smile, John nodded and said, "Let's do it."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, lovelies! Please let me know what you think in the comments, you guys are all my muses! 3**

 **Chapter 4 will be up next Sunday, see you all then! xoxo**


	4. On Your Mark, Get Set

**A/N: Hey guys, sorry for the late update, there have been about a million technical difficulties with my laptop lately! Thanks for the patience and I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)**

* * *

The day after his surprisingly enjoyable night out with Lestrade, Sherlock woke up early, donned his sharpest suit, and decided that he was finally going to spend some time with John. He didn't care if that meant taking a case, getting lunch at Angelo's, or simply sitting side by side on the sofa and re-watching John's ridiculous Bond movies; he just knew that he needed to see him. It had been a week since John's departure and the only contact they'd had was a few text conversations (which were almost always cut short by some silly domestic thing Mary was orchestrating) and one brief email exchange, in which John had shared several 'charming' photos of his and Mary's new furniture. Suffice to say, Sherlock was highly unsatisfied with their level of communication at the moment, and was tired of sitting around and simply expecting it to change by its own accord; it was time he stepped in and finally took care of this himself.

So, after drinking a somewhat decent cup of tea and nibbling half a piece of toast that morning, Sherlock leaned against the counter and phoned John.

"Sherlock!" John greeted warmly. "I was actually just about to call you."

Immediately, the tension bled from Sherlock's shoulders and a small smile bloomed across his face. "Hello, John," he said, feeling the words leave him like a sigh. "I've missed you."

John exhaled loudly. "Yes, well, um, I've missed you too, Sherlock. A lot. It's quite strange to no longer make tea in the morning for the two of us. Mary makes the tea around here, but I'm still in the habit of waking up early and preparing two cups."

Sherlock stared down at the tile and smiled. "Well, I still find myself longing for your tea, so if you ever find yourself with a surplus, don't hesitate to bring it over."

"Excellent," John said with a chuckle. "I''ll finally get to put these extra cups to good use."

Even though they'd hardly exchanged more than a few sentences, Sherlock already felt himself going pliant with contentedness. John's presence, even through the phone, always had that affect on him. With his newfound sense of calmness, Sherlock relocated to the sitting room and spread himself along the length of the sofa, one arm bent behind his neck, the other pressing the phone to his ear.

"So, how have you been?" John asked. "Done anything interesting in the past week?"

"Yes, actually. I went to a pub with Lestrade last night."

"Oh?" John said, his interest piqued. "What was the occasion?"

Sherlock decided that it would probably be best if he didn't mention that Lestrade had come by to cheer Sherlock up after finding him pathetically mooning over John's absence, so instead he answered, "We were discussing a case and eventually ended up at the Lion's Head."

"Oi, I love that pub!" John exclaimed. "Remember, you and I went there a while back? I had you try that terrible cinnamon beer while you deduced those blokes behind us?"

Sherlock smiled at the memory. "Yes, I do recall. That drink was an absolute atrocity."

John snorted. "The face you made when the bartender handed it to you—priceless."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in good humor. "I'm sure."

Silence followed this comment, but Sherlock didn't mind. Nothing ever felt awkward with John, so he simply gazed at the ceiling, the phone propped comfortably by his ear, and waited for John to continue.

Finally, after another beat, he did: "Sherlock, um, I know this might seem like a bit of a non sequitur, but I just want to apologize for not seeing you more lately. I kept meaning to stop by this week, but it's just been so busy the past few days, moving my stuff in and refurnishing the place with Mary." Even without visual confirmation, Sherlock knew that John was frowning apologetically and rubbing the back of his neck. With a sigh, John continued, "I know I promised that nothing would change, and I really do intend to stick to that. Now that I'm settled in, we'll definitely have more time to spend with each other."

"It's fine, John. Really," Sherlock said, forcing himself to sound as nonchalant as possible. Though it was true that he harbored no ill will towards John for his lack of communication, he certainly wasn't as content with it as he was pretending to be. It was completely understandable that John hadn't had the time to send more than a few text messages over the past week, but that didn't mean Sherlock was pleased about it. The petulant, child-like part of his mind wanted to insist that John spend every moment with him, while the logical half calmly pointed out that John was a grown man who had the right to do whatever he wanted.

"Well, how about I make it up to you?" John asked. "Lunch today at Angelo's?"

A wave of warmth crashed over him. "Yes," Sherlock said with a smile. "That's sounds lovely, John."

* * *

John's lunch with Sherlock was in a half hour, which meant that he only had thirty minutes to figure out how he wanted to broach the subject of the blind date. The main issue he was having at the moment, was that he wasn't sure whether or not he was entirely okay with Sherlock dating someone in the first place. He was well-aware that it wasn't very fair of him to want Sherlock to remain single while he gallivanted around with his girlfriend, but the primitive, stupidly possessive side of him wanted Sherlock to be his and his alone—even if he wasn't actually allowed to be with Sherlock himself. On the other hand, he recognized how ridiculous this was, as Sherlock had made it quite clear that he had no intention of pursuing John, and he knew he had to make peace with this shift in their relationship. Perhaps this Janine woman was exactly what he needed: with Sherlock officially off the table, he'd finally be able to move on entirely, and stop comparing Mary to Sherlock.

Still, he was conflicted, so, at loss for what to do, he sat on the edge of his bed and began scrawling out a pros-and-cons list on the back of an old receipt.

 _PROS_

 _Mary will be happy_

 _Sherlock will get the opportunity to meet someone new_

 _I'll feel less guilty about moving out ^_

 _If it goes well I can move on_

 _CONS_

 _Janine is tall, pretty, and fun to be around (apparently), so they may get along_

 _Sherlock might like Janine_

 _Sherlock might spend all of his time with Janine_

 _They might start properly dating_

 _She might move into the flat_

 _He might not invite me on cases anymore_

 _We might stop spending time together_

 _Janine will be his new blogger_

Frustrated, John set the pen aside and crumpled the paper into a ball. The only discernible solution he could fathom was a double date, because at least he'd be able to monitor how well Sherlock and Janine were getting on. If they were a terrible match, it would be reassuring to be able to view the evidence with his own eyes. However, if they somehow 'clicked', he'd be forced to sit there in agony and watch them flirt, so he was a bit torn on the decision.

In the end, he settled with the possible drawbacks that might accompany a double date, because at least he'd be able to know immediately where the two of them stood with each other. He still didn't want to do this, but Mary was excited at the prospect of playing matchmaker for their friends, and this was a surefire way for him to finally get over Sherlock, so he felt that he needed to just bite the bullet and get it over with.

With a sigh, John grabbed his coat and headed for the door, the crumpled list still clutched in his hand.

* * *

 _At Angelo's:_

Of all the things John had told Sherlock over the years, this was by far the most ridiculous.

"A blind date," Sherlock repeated flatly, his fork of pasta halted before his mouth. Up until this point, his and John's conversation had been full of pleasant, easy banter and light-hearted anecdotes. They'd just finished reminiscing on their most recent case—a particularly funny one wherein a man was convinced that his mailman was conspiring against him—when, out of absolutely nowhere, John had said:

"How would you feel about going on a blind date?"

Of course, at first, Sherlock had thought he'd misheard him. "What?"

When that befuddled question had been met with a sheepish look and a muttered reiteration of John's previous statement, Sherlock then asked: "With whom?"

And when John replied, "Mary's friend, Janine," Sherlock returned to square one and repeated: _"What?"_

"Yes, Sherlock, it's a blind date. And, I know, it sounds ridiculous," John said with an exhale. "But Mary seems to think that you and her friend will really get on. I mean, you're both tall and, er…dark haired…"

Sherlock set his fork down alongside his glass and deliberately moved his plate away. "You must be joking."

John cleared his throat. "Er. No."

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. "You're basing my compatibility with this woman on height and hair color? John, by those standards, I'm the perfect match for half of England."

"Well, okay, hold on, Mary also said she's quite funny, so—"

"John," Sherlock interrupted. "Have you spontaneously forgotten everything about me? Because if you have, then I have no problem reminding you that I am not interested in _dating_ someone. It's far too plebian."

"Yes, I know you're not, but just hear me out, okay?"

Sherlock snorted and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine."

"Apparently, she's fun to be around and she has a good sense of humor," John explained. "Plus, she's tall, dark-haired, and, well, _pretty._ " John cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. "What's not to love?"

Sherlock stared at John for a long time and tried to figure out why he was being so adamant about this. His shoulders were slightly higher than usual, and his ears were beginning to go pink at the tips, two clear indicators that this topic made him embarrassed and uneasy. From those physical signs, it seemed obvious that John did not want to be having this conversation, yet the steadiness of his eyes and the determined set of his jaw told a different story. As always, John Watson was a juxtaposition of contradictions that, for the life of him, Sherlock could not figure out.

"So you're serious about this then?" Sherlock said slowly. "You genuinely want me to go on a—" he nearly shuddered at the word "— _date_ with Mary's friend."

"Yes," John said, not meeting his eyes. "I want you to go on a date with Mary's friend."

"But _why?"_

"Do you want the truth, Sherlock?"

"No, John," Sherlock said sardonically, "I'd like you to _lie_."

John pointedly ignored the sarcasm. "The truth is, I'm only doing this because Mary gets really excited about, you know, setting people up and playing matchmaker, and I figure it wouldn't hurt to indulge her a bit."

"So, you wish to indulge her stupid passion by making me go on a date with her insipid friend," Sherlock clarified.

"She isn't insipid, Sherlock."

"Oh, pardon me, I meant uninteresting, bland, tedious, and unappealing."

"You haven't even met her yet!"

"I hardly need to John—I'm well aware of the type of women Mary associates with."

Sherlock couldn't decide if he was more offended or saddened by John's desperate attempt to 'set him up'. He supposed for most platonic male friendships, this gesture was something that would inspire gratitude, but in this case, it only made his chest ache. He had no interest in this Janine woman, because he had no interest in anyone who was not John Watson. He wasn't lonely because he needed someone in his life, he was lonely because he needed _John_ in his life.

"Well, you don't need to actually _date_ her, Sherlock, but if you could just go out to this one dinner with her, it would mean a lot," John replied. "You don't even have to be nice."

Sherlock scoffed. "As if that was up for discussion."

"And," John continued, "we can even make it a double date, so it's less awkward."

"A double date to make it _less_ awkward?" Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. "I think you might have a hole in your logic, John, because I'm quite certain it'll only be _more_ awkward if there are four of us."

"How?"

 _Because then I'll be forced to watch you and Mary coo at each other while I brood jealously in the corner_ , Sherlock thought to himself. Out loud, he said, "Because Mary will probably spend the whole night trying to push Janice and I together."

"Well, first of all, no, she won't; I'll make sure of it. And secondly, it's _Janine._ "

"Janice, Janine, what's a few misplaced letters," Sherlock said flippantly.

John absentmindedly swirled his spaghetti around his fork. "Listen, if you really don't want to go, I understand. And I mean that: I promise I won't be upset about it."

As always, Sherlock was struck with the overwhelming urge to give John what he wanted. Though it pained him greatly, it seemed that John had moved on and was desperate for Sherlock to do the same, so he felt inclined to at least entertain the idea of dining with this woman. It didn't particularly matter to him that the person on this 'blind date' was of a sex that did not interest him, because he had no intention of investing himself in another human being, man or woman. He would go on the date for the sake of appeasing John, and then never speak to Janice— _Janine_ —again. It was going to be a rather tedious process, but if it meant making John a bit happier, he was willing to endure it. Besides, it would be quite nice to see John all dressed up and sharply-styled for dinner, as it had been ages since he'd seen him in anything but his typical (and dearly loved) jumper-and-trouser getup.

"Fine," Sherlock declared, "I'll go."

John stopped drinking his water and stared at him, frozen in the motion of holding the glass to his lips. "What?"

"I said I'll go," Sherlock repeated. "I'll go on your pedestrian date with Mary's pedestrian friend. _But_ I do have a few conditions."

"Fair enough. What are they?"

"One: you have to stop sending me photographs of your new flat. It's cluttering up my inbox."

It really wasn't, but he had no intention of trying to articulate the aching chasm that formed in his chest every time John brandished evidence of his new-and-improved life with Mary.

John looked a bit surprised by the request, but agreed anyway. "Done."

"And two: you have to help me on the Whittaker case. It's a fairly large investigation so it will most likely take up quite a bit of your time. You'll have to come to Baker Street at least three days a week."

This was not a lie: the Whittaker case truly was a complex enigma, and it would take at least a month to work through it entirely. The only omission was that Sherlock could easily solve the case himself, but John hardly needed to know that. Besides, he tended to work better when John was within his vicinity, anyway.

"Sherlock, I would've agreed to help with the case even if it weren't a 'condition' of yours," John said with a laugh. "I'm in."

"Good," Sherlock said with a small smile. The bitter feeling in his chest began to thaw, and for one blissful moment, he forgot that this was all in exchange for the blind date.

"I can't thank you enough, Sherlock," John said, reaching across the table and squeezing Sherlock's hand. "Mary's going to be so pleased."

Sherlock stored the sensation of John's hand against his on the highest floor of his mind palace, where all things which pertained to John resided. "Think nothing of it, John," he said, boldly turning his hand palm-up and grasping John's hand in return. "I'm always happy to help."

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 **A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone, please let me know what you think in the comments! Chapter 5 should be up next weekend, and the date will finally take place! :)**


	5. The Date

**A/N: Well, first of all, I would just like to say that I am very sorry that this story has been on hiatus for so long! The last three months or so have been incredibly stressful and busy (solidifying college plans, bringing up my senior year grades, dating someone new), so I haven't had a chance to work on this story until now. However, all of that hard work was well worth it because I am pleased to announce that I will officially be attending UCLA as an art student this fall! Go Bruins!**

 **Now, as for the story: this chapter is from Sherlock's POV, because I know some of you are quite frustrated with John's narrative, and I'd like to give him a break until I can articulate his POV a bit better. He's not a bad guy, he's just quite stupid when it comes to matters of the heart (especially when those matters involve Sherlock). Janine and Sherlock's 'date' will be a two-parter, so the rest of their night will take place in chapter 6!**

 **Many thanks to resrie71 for the wonderful insight and suggestions!** **Hope you guys enjoy and don't forget to leave a review!**

* * *

In spite of how readily Sherlock had initially agreed to go on the date, he was now beginning to feel a rather intense, prickling sense of dread about the whole ordeal.

When he had woken up this morning, the feeling was just a faint murmur of unease which he had easily batted away and ignored. However, after waiting ten long hours, taking an endless cab ride, and stressfully pacing in front of the restaurant, the sensation had bloomed into something terrible and gut-churning.

And, at the moment, Mary's desperately overzealous string of questions certainly wasn't helping things.

"Sherlock, I really can't stress how nice it is to see you again!" she gushed. "Janine isn't here yet, so we have a bit of time to sit here and chat!"

"Mm," Sherlock hummed.

"So, how has your detective work been, dear? John only gives me sparse details and I'm dying to know more!"

Beside her, John smiled tightly and tipped his head, silently asking Sherlock to please indulge in Mary's smalltalk.

With an internal world-weary sigh, Sherlock folded his hands on the table and leaned forward slightly to indicate that he was fully engaged. _Oh, the things he did for John Watson._

"There haven't been too many cases lately, but I'm sure things will pick up again soon enough. The holidays are a few months away and crime rates tend to increase around Christmas time. 'Tis the season, and all," he added drily.

"Oh, no, that can't be true," Mary said with a good-natured laugh. "The holidays are so lovely, why on earth would crime rates go up?"

"You'd be surprised by how many serial killings go on in the month of December," Sherlock replied. "Why, just last year there was a gentleman who posed as Father Christmas and collected for charities during the day, and then decapitated men who resembled his brother at night. Interesting case, though the crime scenes were often a bit messy."

Mary blinked several times. "Oh, er—"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, saving Mary the awkwardness of responding, "why don't you tell her about that case we took a few months ago? The one with the kitten?"

A look of relief spilled across Mary's face. "Kitten? Oh, yes, do tell!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, that hardly counts as a case; we were paid in candy buttons."

John laughed. "Yes, because she was seven, Sherlock! Now you'd better tell the story before I do, because you know you hate the way I tell it."

" _Yes_ , because you make everything sound like a bloody Hallmark advertisement." With an annoyed huff, Sherlock turned to Mary. "Several months ago, a little girl lost her kitten and asked John and I to help her find it. I, of course, had better things to do, but since John is quite maudlin when it comes to children and small animals, I agreed. We spent an hour scouring London for the thing, until we found it quite stereotypically stuck in a tree. I, being the dexterous man that I am, climbed the tree and retrieved the cat, and the little girl, having nothing to pay us with, offered a sheet of candy buttons as a token of gratitude." He cleared his throat and ignored the warmth emanating from his cheeks. "And that is all."

John grinned. "Yes, except for the part where you agreed to help her within seconds of her consulting us, because _you_ have a weakness for children and/or small animals."

Sherlock would have felt annoyed that John was pointing this out, but his tone sounded so warm and fond that he couldn't bring himself to feel anything but pleased. Still, he had an image to uphold, so he sniffed and haughtily looked away.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, John."

"Aww," Mary said, her hand pressed to her chest. "Sherlock, that is an adorable story. You should definitely share that with Janine as soon as she gets here."

Ah, yes, Janine. For a few blissful minutes, Sherlock had actually forgotten that this was meant to be a double date.

"Speaking of Janine, do you have any idea where she is?" John asked, glancing at his watch. "She's already twenty minutes late."

"Traffic," Mary said with decisive optimism. "That must be it."

Sherlock swirled his straw idly in his drink and tossed an unconcerned glance at the door. "Or perhaps she doesn't plan on showing up."

"Oh, no, don't talk like that, Sherlock," Mary said reassuringly. "I know Janine like the back of my hand, she would never stand someone up."

John coughed. "Er, but didn't you tell me that Janine is a bit impulsive? Perhaps she _isn't_ coming _._ "

"That seems likely," Sherlock mused, half-heartedly attempting to keep the hope out of his tone. "Impulsivity does tend to lead to unexpected behaviors."

Mary frowned and glanced between the two of them. "You two are acting as if you _don't_ want her to show up."

Sherlock didn't bother suppressing his derisive snort. "It wouldn't exactly break my heart."

An upset sigh escaped Mary's lips. "Sherlock, I really don't think—oh!" All of a sudden, her bottle-green eyes lit up like headlights and her disappointed expression melted into one of joy. It seemed that something behind the two of them had caught Mary's attention. "Speaking of the devil—hello, Janine!"

Sherlock winced and slowly turned around in his chair, dread sitting in his stomach like a stone.

The woman who met his gaze was tall, shapely, and dark-haired. Black waves cascaded over her shoulders in a silky waterfall and a dark violet dress clung to her figure like a second skin. Her lips, shapely and full, were stretched into an amused smirk and her eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief.

Yet, in spite of her beauty, Sherlock could not muster up a single iota of attraction or interest. The only thing he felt was disappointment, because now that Janine was here, Sherlock would have to spend the next few hours actively participating in a double date.

And _that_ was not something he looked forward to.

"Hello, Mary. John," Janine said with a nod as she took the seat beside Sherlock. She placed her purse onto her lap and then turned to him with a smile. "And you must be the infamous Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes!" Mary cut in excitedly. "Oh, Janine, I was right, wasn't I? You two _do_ look absolutely dashing together."

"Mary," John coughed, gently nudging her shoulder. "Tone it down, yeah?"

"I suppose," Janine said lightly, her tone the perfect balance between polite and noncommittal. She flashed another look at Sherlock, this time from the corner of her eye as she examined the menu. "I'm Janine Hawkins, as I'm sure you've gathered."

"Indeed," Sherlock replied shortly, unfolding and studying his own menu.

For the next several beats, nothing more was said between the two. Mary glanced somewhat dejectedly at them, her bottom lip slightly pouted, before a burst of optimism splashed across her features.

"Ooh, Janine, darling, tell us how work was today! Surely something eventful must have happened." She paused to smile excitedly at Sherlock. "There's _always_ something going on at Janine's work. She's the secretary for some big, snazzy businessman."

"Not anymore," Janine said tightly, without looking up from the menu. "Quit my job today."

Mary stopped smiling. "You quit? Why?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Janine's profile. Arched brows, set jaw, steady hands—clearly she felt that her reason for quitting was completely justified. And judging by the style of her clothing and her (objectively) attractive appearance, Sherlock was willing to bet that some form of unwanted advancement by either her boss or a coworker had prompted her to leave. Right as he was about to tear his eyes away from her, he noticed a slight purply-red color on her knuckles: _bruises._ Very quickly, in the manner of most things in Sherlock's mind palace, the pieces slid into place.

Janine huffed and shook her head. "I'll tell you about it later, Mary—"

"Sexual harassment," Sherlock cut in succinctly. "Someone at the workplace got a bit too familiar, so you punched him, or her I suppose, though that is statistically unlikely. You didn't quit, you were terminated. Quite unfairly, I might add."

There was a long beat of silence wherein Janine simply stared at him.

John exhaled. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock glanced at John, surprised at the slight edge of reprimand in his voice. What did he say that was so wrong? Yes, perhaps it was a bit intrusive to make such an intimate deduction within the first five minutes of meeting this woman, but to be fair, John knew Sherlock's tendencies prior to arranging this date and he'd insisted that Sherlock come anyway. Besides, this was bound to happen at some point tonight, so at least it was out of the way from the very beginning.

Janine blinked several times and then narrowed her eyes at him, though not in the way that most people peered at him post-deduction. Instead of looking offended, angry, or suspicious, she merely looked fascinated.

"You deduced that?" she asked finally.

"Of course. Your demeanor, appearance, and bruising on your knuckles all pointed very clearly to that conclusion."

After a moment, she nodded slowly, as if reluctantly offering Sherlock her respect. "Not bad, Sherlock Holmes. Not bad at all."

Audibly, Mary let out an exhale of relief.

"Good, good. See? No harm meant, dear," Mary said, though it was unclear who exactly she was reassuring. "Now then, what do you say we all take a look at the menu and order?"

…

Janine was not as unbearable as Sherlock predicted, but that really wasn't saying much, as his expectations of others tended to be embarrassingly low. Given that she hadn't danced on top of a table or tried to snog him yet, she was thus far exceeding his wildest hopes and dreams.

The thing was, Janine was actually a very intelligent woman. The way she spoke was self-assured and steady, with enough charisma and friendliness to keep her from seeming arrogant. She wasn't overflowing with sunshine and positivity, like Mary, nor was she overwhelmingly serious or cynical. Rather, she displayed a happy medium between the two, carrying on conversations with a healthy amount of charm and dry wit. If this context were different and he were permitted to speak to Janine in an entirely unromantic setting, Sherlock might have actually enjoyed himself.

However, that was not the case, because this _was_ a romantic setting—something Sherlock was very blatantly reminded of every time Mary giggled and made a suggestive comment about the two of them—so he couldn't relax enough to relish Janine's company. Rather, he found himself resenting it.

The only thing that was keeping him from falling asleep out of boredom was John. Tonight, he was dressed to the nines in his sharp sports coat and pale blue button-down. The jacket framed his shoulders nicely, making his upper body look broad and strong, and the shirt hugged his chest just enough to emphasize the stubbornly-lingering muscle from his army days. Not to mention the color made his eyes pop like sapphires.

…

For the next hour or so, Sherlock sat there like the prisoner he was and dully listened to the conversation (smalltalk about the weather, the economy, telly shows, celebrities, relatives and friends Sherlock did not know or care about), occasionally adding a sarcastic phrase when a response was required. The only good thing about this situation, was that John seemed to be just as bored and miserable as he was. When the chat veered towards Janine's dress and where she'd purchased it, Sherlock finally pulled his phone from his pocket and sent John a text.

 _Bored. SH_

He watched as John removed his own mobile and looked at the screen with a smirk.

 ** _Figured. To be quite honest, I'm a bit bored as well. Don't really have much to contribute to the present conversation, do I?_**

 _Do you mean to say you don't buy your jumpers from the 'charming little boutique' on the corner, too? SH_

John exhaled a chuckle.

 ** _No, you git. I get my jumpers from the sales bin at T.K. Maxx like any respectable bloke._**

Sherlock looked up from his screen at John, mulling something over. After a moment, he typed out:

 _Do you want to go somewhere else? SH_

John raised his eyebrows.

 ** _Where?_**

 _I don't know. But I don't think I can stand much more of this. Perhaps I could make up an excuse about an emergency case and the two of us could leave? SH_

John frowned, looking conflicted.

 ** _Seems like a pretty obvious attempt to flee, don't you think?_**

 _Is that a 'no' then? SH_

 ** _I don't know, Sherlock. It's just that I promised Mary that we would do this, and it would be a bit rude to just leave._**

Sherlock clenched his jaw and put his phone back in his pocket without replying. _Fine._

Across the table, John huffed through his nose and typed another text. Sherlock ignored the buzzing in his pocket the first time, but then John send three more messages and his curiosity prompted him to check.

 ** _Sherlock, you understand where I'm coming from with that, right? It IS rude._**

 ** _I know you agreed to this somewhat reluctantly in the first place, and I know you've already done me a big favor simply by showing up, but all I ask is that you see this through._**

 ** _One more hour isn't too bad, is it? After this I promise you'll never have to see her again._**

 ** _Please, Sherlock. I really, really do appreciate this._**

 _Fine. SH_

 ** _Thank you._**

Again, _the things he did for John Watson._

"Well, John, darling, how does that sound?" Mary asked, pulling them both back into the present. John slipped his phone into his pocket and stared blankly at Mary, oblivious to whatever proposition had just been offered.

"Sorry, love, could you repeat that?"

"I said, it would be a good idea if you and I went home now, so Sherlock and Janine can have a bit of time to themselves!" Mary said cheerily. "The double date was fun, but one-on-one time is very important too, you know."

"Oh, er, would you like that, Janine?" John asked, clearly a bit caught off guard by Mary's suggestion.

"I wouldn't mind," Janine said with a smile.

Sherlock immediately began to protest. "Actually, I have quite a few urgent experiments I need to—"

"Oh, don't be silly, dear!" Mary said, waving it away. "Dessert should take a half hour at most, that's hardly any time out of your schedule. Besides, you said you don't have any cases on right now, so I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to work on your experiments later."

It took every single ounce of Sherlock's willpower to avoid glaring at Mary. After taking a second to compose himself, Sherlock turned to John and gave him a very thinly-veiled look of desperation.

"John? You understand the importance of my experiments, don't you?"

John cleared his throat and turned to Mary. "Yes, they're quite time-sensitive."

Mary frowned and was on the brink of replying, when Janine snorted and interrupted with, "If he wants to leave so badly, let him."

Hurriedly, Mary replied, "No, dear, he doesn't want to leave. Right, Sherlock?"

Staying meant appeasing John and Mary, but it also meant admitting that his so-called 'urgent' experiments were really just an excuse to leave, which reflected quite poorly on him because it meant that not only was he unable to come up with credible excuses, but he was also too weak-willed to follow through with them. However, leaving meant potentially disappointing John ( **_All I ask is that you see this through)_** and if that happened, then this whole night would have been worthless, because the only reason he was here in the first place was to make John happy.

Sherlock stiffly turned to Janine. "I don't want to leave; I suppose my experiments can wait a bit longer."

She smirked. "Wonderful."

"Splendid! John and I will be off, then. You two lovebirds enjoy yourselves!" Mary called over her shoulder, blowing kisses.

…

 _Ten minutes later:_

There were exactly fourteen different things Sherlock would rather be doing than dining with a flirtatious Irish woman who seemed to find Sherlock's discomfort endlessly amusing.

"Could you please not brush your knee against mine underneath the table?" Sherlock requested shortly, taking a drink of water. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Janine pursed her lips to suppress a smile, and scooted away.

"Of course, Sherlock."

"Could you also stop staring at me," he asked after a beat. Janine merely hummed.

"You have very nice bone structure, though. Bit hard to look away."

Sherlock stared down at the tiramisu Mary had so kindly ordered for them and exhaled slowly, in the same way John did whenever he stumbled across one of Sherlock's horrendous failed experiments.

"I'm not attracted to you, Janine Hawkins," he said at last, hoping the bluntness of his words would throw her off.

She didn't reply, but her expression looked completely unruffled. Again, there was something unreadable dancing in her eyes, giving Sherlock the impression that she had some secret knowledge he was not privy to. He didn't like it one bit.

Loudly, completely cutting off whatever Janine might have said next, Sherlock announced, "Well, anyway, it's getting late, I should be off."

Instead of being offended by his abrupt, rude behavior, Janine put down her drink and actually _laughed_ at him. "At nine-thirty? Does your mum still give you a curfew?"

The sarcasm caught him off guard, but he recovered quickly. "No, I simply have better things to do. Far more interesting things."

"Yeah, you mentioned a few experiments," she said, clearly humoring him.

"Yes, I have a very delicate experiment on owl feathers that requires stirring every three hours," he answered haughtily.

"What else?"

"A stack of unsolved murder cases from Scotland Yard."

"And?"

"Several experiments on coagulated saliva and boiled fingernails."

"You're an odd bloke, Sherlock Holmes," Janine decided at last, though her tone sounded intrigued rather than put-off. "I like you."

He scrunched up his nose in distaste. "No."

She raised an amused brow. "No?"

"No. I did not come here to win you over. In fact, I didn't want to come here at all. The only reason I bothered showing up at all was to appease John, but that clearly wasn't worth it, because now I'm stuck here with you, when there are _oceans_ of things I could be doing instead."

Janine rolled her eyes and resumed nursing her drink. "Well, I'd hate to keep you from your owl feather concoction, so if you must go, don't let me stop you." She met his eyes and offered him an indecipherable look. "But, before you go, I do have one question."

He narrowed his eyes at her, not caring in the slightest for the mischievous look on her face. "A question?"

"Yes, it'll take less than a minute to answer. Probably would only require a few words, too."

"Fine, go on."

She made a point of sucking on the lemon wedge in her drink and dabbing her mouth. "Well," she said, her eyes glittering, "I just wanted to know how long you've been in love with John."

Sherlock felt his entire body go still. "Pardon?"

"I said, how long have you been in love with John?" she repeated nonchalantly. "Just out of curiosity."

He blinked several times. "How long…I…John—what the hell are you talking about?"

She rolled her eyes. "You said your pet peeve was stupidity, yet you're playing dumb right now, detective."

After a beat, he gathered his wits enough to formulate an adequate response. "Janine, I do not know what you're talking about."

"Oh, please. You couldn't stop staring at him for the past hour and a half, and you were practically boring holes of jealousy into Mary's head every time she looked away. You didn't smile or laugh at anything unless John was the one who said it and—hate to break it to you, love—but his jokes were not _that_ funny."

"John is exceptionally clever, I wouldn't expect you to understand his humor," Sherlock retorted without thinking. Janine merely raised her eyebrows and offered a supremely smug look.

"See? Look at that fierce protectiveness. I've only seen you two interact with each other for less than two hours, yet I can already tell that you're head over bloody heels for him."

"And how is any of that your business?" Sherlock said after a long pause, having found himself stumped by Janine's astute, if not intrusive, observation. He also felt a bit disoriented, as he typically wasn't on the _receiving_ end of a deduction.

"It isn't, I suppose. But I'd just like you to know that you're not alone, I understand exactly what you're going through."

"What could you _possibly_ understand about this situation, Janine?"

She shrugged. "You're not the only one with a complicated love life, Sherlock Holmes."

"My love life is not complicated, Janine, it is nonexistent."

Janine only smiled. "You love him, Sherlock. I can see it. It's practically seeping from your pores."

Sherlock scrunched his nose in distaste. "Why on earth are you so invested in my 'love life'? And besides, shouldn't you be rooting for John and Mary? She is your friend after all."

Janine sighed. "That's true, but I've always been a sucker for the whole 'star-crossed lovers' thing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Then you are looking in the wrong place, Janine, because John and I are not star-crossed, and we certainly are not lovers."

"For now," she said decisively, as if the future was as clear as the menu before her. "Perhaps I'm a bit out of line for saying all of this, especially because, as you said, Mary _is_ my friend and I suppose I _should_ be more enthusiastic about her relationship with John, but I have a good feeling about this, Sherlock. For the time being, I think you just have to hang in there."

 _"_ _Hang in there?_ " Sherlock repeated with disdain. "Christ, surely even you can come up with something better than an outdated cliche like that?"

"Oi, it's cheesy but it's true. The only thing to do at this point is keep trudging onward."

Sherlock cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. "Janine, you were quite right when you said you were out of line. I don't have any feelings for John, other than purely platonic fondness."

She scrutinized him. "So, you like Mary, then?"

Sherlock scoffed. "No, she's boring and typical. But the fact that I dislike her in no way reflects how I feel about John."

"Oh, I don't know, Mr. Detective, because to me it sounds like you're a bit jealous."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Why on earth would I be jealous of an eager-to-please, babbling, empty-headed nurse with the intellectual depth of a rock?"

Janine arched a brow. "Yeah, definitely no bitterness or resentment there."

Sherlock scowled and took another drink of water, simply for the sake of busying his hands.

"Anyway, Sherlock Holmes, the point is, I think you and John would make a smashing couple. I know I already mentioned the fact that you spent the whole night staring at him, but what I didn't say is that _John_ couldn't tear his eyes away either."

Sherlock blinked in surprise, flushed all the way down to his roots. "Is that so?" he asked faintly, putting down his glass.

"Yeah," Janine said, her features softening.

"Well, er, there are many reasons why that could have occurred," Sherlock said hurriedly, too afraid to fully embrace any form of hope.

She looked at him for a long moment, assessing. Finally, she said, "Perhaps."

"Yes," Sherlock said with a short nod.

" _Or_ perhaps not," she added after a moment, the gleam back in her eye. "Perhaps he couldn't look away for the same reason you couldn't."

There wasn't much Sherlock could have said in response to that, so instead of replying he simply took another bite of room-temperature tiramisu and stared intently at the tablecloth.

Janine cleared her throat. "Well, anyway, you want to get out of here?" She grabbed her purse and pulled her coat from the back of her chair.

Warily, Sherlock pushed his dish aside and began gathering his own coat. "I do hope you mean that in the literal sense, and not as code for 'let's go off and have sex'."

Janine rolled her eyes. "As lovely as you are, not everyone wants to dive into your pants, Sherlock. I'm merely suggesting we continue this conversation in a different setting."

"Good" he said, nodding firmly. "Because I have no interest in engaging in intercourse with you."

Janine laughed and tugged her purse onto her shoulder. "You're quite blunt, aren't you?"

"I suppose."

"Good," she chuckled. "Me too."

* * *

 **Thank you all so much for reading! Janine and Sherlock's night will continue in chapter 6, so make sure to subscribe/follow!**

 **Let me know what you think in the comments! :***


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